


Such Horrible Things

by AdrasteaXV (incrediblycreativeusername)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambition, Canon-Typical Violence, Certain characters are just plain evil, Character Death, Dubious Morality, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Family Issues, Female Anti-Hero, Gen, GoT families are a mess, Gregor is his own warning, Healing, Hints of Sansan, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inheritance, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, POV Sandor, POV Sansa, Past Abuse, Possible Villain Protagonist, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, SanSan will grow stronger, Sandor meets his niece, Sansa learns to be queen, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Tyrion and Bronn snarking together are awesome, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, starting chapter 9/10 onwards, strong sansa, they manage not to kill each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 74,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incrediblycreativeusername/pseuds/AdrasteaXV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>‘I-I’m sorry. Truly… it’s just… he pays well. And t-takes women too.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She already had a plan. It was a safer plan than showing her face inside the castle and risking the Hound figuring out who she was. But it was assumed an innocent person did not run and hide and lurk. What if she was more direct, not less? Look into the Hound’s eyes and figure out if he truly meant to kill her, perhaps get him to trust her slightly so he would be easier to kill. That way she could control what knowledge of her he got, instead of spending the time fearing that he already knew and at any moment he would come and kill her. Perhaps she would get a room with stone walls where barring the door made her feel safe instead of making her wonder whether any potential attacker would hack through the walls instead.</em>
</p><p>Alyssa Hill goes to King's Landing to collect what she deems to be her inheritance. </p><p>When Sansa says she does not want her betrothal to Joffrey broken, Tyrion starts to teach her how to be queen.</p><p>A sort of study into Clegane family relationships. Sansa's plotline starts around Chapter 10. Sansa and SanSan fans can skip to that chapter, I suppose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody. 
> 
> The title of this fic is taken from the Creature Feature song. 
> 
> I do not own the Game of Thrones at all whatsoever, obviously. 
> 
> Please read and review.

“I’ll tell ya. I dinn’t do nuthin’,” Reeve said again, cowering beneath what had been a table. It was half-destroyed now, the entire place around him had been ransacked. His inn. Wartime was a dangerous time, but he did not go against no kings. No king that mattered anyhow. Lannister men came through here, and they knew by the banners and fuck even the name of the inn that he meant no trouble. The Loyal Lion. They were in lion country, everybody knew lions truly sat on the Iron Throne. This was not meant to happen.

His leg was agony. The agony was spreading, not just enveloping his thigh, but had moved beyond his knees… and upwards too. When he had tried to move, his leg had collapsed out from beneath him. What the bloody woman had done was place an apple in his mouth like he was a fucking pig ready to eat and wrap it tightly into place with cloth. His hands were tied too, to prevent him from removing the apple most like, and she had left him there. Left him there, half hidden and trapped, as all his customers fled and no more returned. Even his whores had fled.

Half hidden and trapped, in a place set up to burn, with about five or six bodies. The bloody woman, that bloody fucking Snow bastard, had not moved them. The crows could have the bodies for all that he cared, but not where he had to see them. All she had left him was the silver she had pressed into his palm, for the meal and the inconvenience. The inconvenience? Fuck, she had taken everything from him and given him a fucking silver in return. His inn had been ransacked. His wound was going bad, the knife she had left him still sticking out of his leg. If he wriggled, he could move just enough to get his hands onto the hilt, but not enough to yank it free. It would be too painful besides, and if he did it wrong he would bleed to death.

_‘Do you want me to kill you?’_

When a group of three men had come in, the relief had flooded him. He’d screamed, the apple still muffling the sound, and they had approached him. One had cut the bindings from his mouth, and they had dragged him out from under the counter. He was a tall man, with a thick black beard and a bald head.

“Thank you, thank you,” Reeve had said, taking a moment longer to place them than he ought of, then the thanks felt stupid on his tongue. He recognized the man, even without the terrifying presence of his lord. Polliver, he was called, or something of the sort. The others were the Sweetling and… Dunsen? Eggon? His vision was hazy and he did not care enough to recall their names. The third was not the Tickler; that much he knew. They had ‘tickled’ one of Reeve’s whores once, no reason but to create more holes to stick their cocks into. The Mountain had been there then, and Reeve had not dared to ask for more coin for the expense of losing a whore. Not that he was certain he would have dared if it was just the Tickler.

The men seemed to just about have recovered from their laughter.

“What have we here? A pig,” the third man had said, holding up the apple. “Trussed up and ready to cook. All she would have had’a do was drop a torch.”

She. They knew her.

“Now, now, let Piggy speak. Who did this to you?” the Sweetling had asked, cold amusement in his eyes.

They did not respect him, at all. He was quite the mess, and they knew that it was a she. No respect, for he had been beaten by a woman. “The name’s not Piggy.” That caused them to roar with laughter again.

“We will make it easy for you. Woman, six and a half feet tall, mayhaps a man…”

“… No, woman. She does not cause a bloodbath if she goes as a man,” the third had put in.

“Right, woman then,” Polliver had continued. “Armour, mayhaps, or cloaked.”

Reeve had nodded. “A woman. Thought she was a man, dressed as a fucking knight.”

The men all smiled, and suddenly Reeve felt like he had said the wrong thing, he moved backwards, cowering under the nearest table. There was a body just above him, on the table instead of under it. Then Sweetling said the thing that he did not want to hear, not at all. “Take him to the Tickler.”

“No, no, I’ll tell ya. I dinn’t do nuthin’,” Reeve begged, cowering back further, but that did not stop them from grabbing him and dragging him out. He barely heard the order to burn his inn to the ground, which was just a matter of dropping a torch. It was only when he saw his inn go up in smoke and flames that he let out a cry, a cry which caused more laughter and one of the men to thump him over the back of the head. He was thrown over the back of a horse, his leg screaming in agony, before he was dragged back down again.

“Let him sit,” Sweetling said. “We want to hear this story.”

“So you knew she was a woman, yeah. Did you try to fuck her?” Polliver asked, a smirk on his face.

“She’s a bloody lustful bastard. I haven’t fucked one that large before,” Reeve said. They would listen to the story. If he spoke, and did not act like too much of a craven, might be they would not have to tickle him.

The men exchanged glances.

“You gonna tell us what happened here an’ now, the full version,” the third said, pushing him up onto one of the horses and tying him into place. The pulsing pain was getting worse, but Reeve could not afford to focus on it. “Then when you tell Ser, might be you leave out the part about trying to fuck his daughter.”

Reeve felt all the colour leave his face. “H-his daughter?” She said she was a Snow. She’d had deep purple bruises covering her face, but he was pretty sure she had looked northern. “S-she said she was a Snow.”

“A lying bastard, but still his,” the third said, patting him on the shoulder with fake sympathy before mounting the horse in front of him. “He don’t like people touching his things.”

Tears came to his eyes, unbidden, not just from the pain. He was dead. They knew he was dead, but perhaps they would not tickle him first. His leg flared again. Fuck, he was going quick or slow. _Please gods, don’t let’em tickle me._

“I dinn’t notice her at first,” Reeve said, a tremor in his voice. “She had ‘er helm on, just settled herself by the fire to get warm. It was wet outside, and she was makin’ no trouble, and as she had a sword it was not worth the bother chasin’ ‘er out. Thought she was a man, still, until she came up to me and spoke and removed her helm. I laughed at her. Looked like somebody had beat her and dressed ‘er up as a knight as a jape.” By the time she had spoken to him, she had already been seated, and when he started laughing she’d slouched down as much as one could in plate armour. But then she’d done the oddest thing, and laughed with him, like they were sharing a joke instead of him demeaning her.

“She laughed too. ‘Why you dressed like that?’ I asked her, and she still would not stop her laughter. ‘Stops weapons,’ she said, as if I was the fool…” Reeve was cut off by the sniggering, and he realized that what he had just said was utterly foolish. “She was still smiling stupidly, as if we was friends. She got some coins out an’ asked how long ‘er food would be, if there was a room for her. ‘A gold dragon,’ I told her, pushing her coppers back at her. It calmed her fucking laughter, that, and she just stared at me. ‘A silver stag,’ she said instead.” He had then told her that she could stay with him for the night, as a whore to pay for it, but he did not dare to say it out loud. Her eyes had been pure cold fury, a look that now would have terrified him, but she had nodded and looked away after only a moment of meeting his gaze. Even then, he had taken a step back, and stood further from her after.

From the reaction of the men, clearly he was missing something from that exchange, but none of them said and he did not ask. Reeve remembered the silver stag that she had pressed into his palm suddenly. He no longer had it, likely he had dropped in and it was still in his inn. His inn, which they had burned down.

“Did she say how many stags she got?” Polliver asked.

“She killed all six, ‘course,” Sweetling said. “Bet you a silver.”

“Not just those six. That man we found on…”

“That was not her. Jus’ one slash wound, and he was the only one,” the Sweetling said. “And she just killed six, so she is plenty pissed.”

“What?” Reeve said, lost. They were going to kill him anyway, no matter what he did. Did Ser Gregor not kill his family? He’d almost heard something of the sort when he and his men were in their cups. If he could get her to die too… but he had never heard them utter one word about her. “What’s the bastard done?”

“You are telling the story here, not us,” Sweetling said. “Get to the part where she kills ‘em.”

“How do you know it was her?” Reeve asked. He was lightheaded from the pain, no longer weighing his words. He was dead at the end no matter what.

“The hells have no fury like a pissed woman, they say, and this one knows to use a sword,” Polliver said. “And gets a silver for every man she kills.” That had to be it. Why they were laughing. She had paid him in the coin she would get for his death, from the purse of one of the Goat’s men not even her own.

“She killed none,” Reeve lied. Ser Gregor would not want a weak daughter, surely, even if it was just a bastard. At the very least, she would get no coin. “She just cowered and hid. A true craven.”

“I suppose you saved her then. Got stabbed in the thigh for being her saviour,” the third said sarcastically.

“Might just have to get the Tickler to ask him,” Sweetling said, and Reeve cursed himself. The Sweetling knew that he was afraid of the Tickler, because of the way he had gone and begged. He was a man, not a craven. If he had to die, he would take the one who had all-but-killed him down with him.

“She killed none,” he repeated. The horse he was on stopped suddenly, and he sighed in pointless relief. The ropes were cut and he was dragged down again, and three-against-one was not a fight he could have ever won even had he not been injured. A fist slammed into the side of his head, and the world blacked out for a length of time he could not determine. When he next became aware, he was slung over the back of a horse instead of being allowed to sit upright, an apple tied in his mouth again. This time it was a rotten one, plucked off the ground, not a relatively nice one from the kitchens. A maggot felt like it was slowly crawling its way to the back of his mouth and down his throat. It was hard for him to keep his eyes open; his limbs were dragging him down and if it was not for the fact that he had been tied into place again he would long have fallen off the horse. The apple sort of muffled his groans, but his screams were still loud even to his ears. His eyes squeezed shut on their own accord.

She had killed them, of course, though night had long fallen and she had been there for hours. Jeyne Snow. That was the name she had given him, as common as they came, though he doubted it was her real one. Hill, likely, not Snow, perhaps not even a Jeyne. His barren wife’s sister had been called Jeyne, and she’d fucked like a whore despite all she had claimed to be a maiden. A beautiful woman. Why could it not be that Jeyne who flickered through his thoughts?

He screamed out when he was pushed off the horse and dragged across the ground. His eyes opened, but his vision was blurry. Even then he could make out Ser Gregor by height alone. One of his men was telling him something, although Reeve could not make out the words.

_‘Do you want me to kill you?’_ Her voice cold and amused, blood covering her body and her knife already in his thigh. One hand remained on the hilt, the other was on his chest as she held him into place. _‘No, no,’_ he had begged her. Reeve blinked several times before he remembered that the bloody woman Bloody Jeyne had left him to die instead, to be found by her father’s men. If he had ‘yes’, she would have probably given him mercy. Polliver pulled the apple from Reeve’s mouth, and he coughed and spluttered. Ser Gregor did not say anything, but Reeve shrunk back and tried to hide himself away. Just him standing there looking furious was enough.

“Are you gonna speak, Piggy?” Polliver said, and Reeve’s first try at speaking came out as a squeak.

“I-is that bloody woman you after, yeah,” Reeve tried again. Kill her. Any lies that he had tried to come up with about her had flown from his mind. He was dead, he was so dead, but he had to speak or he would be worse than dead. “I saw her…”

“Who did she kill?” the Mountain rumbled, and Reeve froze. Some lies or possible truths came back to him suddenly.

“N…” he almost started with the lie he had told the others, but stopped. “S-some of H-h- the Goat’s. L-Lord Tywin’s lot, she… she’s an outlaw, ser. Pretty sure. Killed the king’s men, planned to. Not e-even properly, w-waited ‘til they was drunk, acted as their w-whore. S-stabbed the first in the back…”

“The Loyal Lion burned down. It was very unfortunate,” the Sweetling said. “No sign of outlaws, ‘specially the sort that fight armoured men in their smallclothes. We will question the surrounding villagers to be sure.”

Reeve did not dare look at any of them. He was going to die. They were going to kill him.

“N-no, she let some escape. My whores fled, the rest’a my customers did too. She wanted them to spread the tales,” Reeve said. Please don’t let’em tickle me. “I tried’a stop her, tried’a stop’em, she stabbed me in the leg. I’m on your side, ser. They’re gonna tell, and she’s gonna kill more. And they gonna say the Mountain can’t control his bastard little girl.”

Reeve made the mistake of looking up. The look on Ser Gregor’s face was somehow more terrifying. Reeve whimpered and pissed himself, then the Mountain’s sword skewered him to the ground. Reeve had never screamed so loud, the agony worse than anything he had ever felt.

_‘Do you want me to kill you?’_


	2. Part 1; Alyssa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa Hill heads towards King's Landing.

For four days it had rained.

It was like an omen, a message from the gods, calling her a craven. _‘No, not a craven,’_ Alyssa told herself. _‘Just stupid.’_ Or perhaps they had just finally managed to stop containing their laughter at the world, and were laughing so hard that their tears were streaming from the heavens. Definitely not sad tears, though. They were gods. If they truly wanted something to stop, they would stop it.

She hummed the Riverlands Song under her breath, forcing her exhausted horse onwards. Her own body ached, bruised and weary, worse with days of travel. She had not stopped in over a day, when she had curled up painfully beneath a large tree that had done little to keep her dry and slept for several hours, simply because her eyes had kept closing and she had almost fallen off the saddle. Now that she was back on the main road, she would come across an inn soon enough.

Or somebody would find her. Alyssa brought her left hand to the hilt of her sword, as she was less likely to lose grip of the reins with her right, and silently dared them to come to her. She would ride them down, or stab her sword through their heads, if they were stupid enough to try and stop her. Or perhaps just for approaching her, for who else would but those who wanted to harm her and kill her? If there were any more Mummers near here, and the rumours had spread, then they would probably try to chop her up into little pieces. She could not think that they would reward her for killing some of their fellow sellswords, even if it increased their share of the plunder. Gregor’s men would try to take her alive, but they knew her and knew not to approach if they had any sense at all.

Nobody approached her, and so Alyssa Hill continued on.

She stopped at an inn, paid the stable boy extra to find a room for her without her having to speak to the innkeeper, then even more to listen out for rumours. They had heard nothing about her, little more about where Gregor was. When she asked about the kings, she found out no more than she already knew. The Queen Regent was killing babies, or was that the king? She had heard it both ways even before, and there was no surer proof that Joffrey was hated and a bastard himself. For who would care for a bastard unless they might replace someone undeniably worse, and what trueborn would have to go to such lengths to remove unrecognized bastards?

Listening to hedge knights and sellswords seemed to get better results of a sort. The legend of Beric Dondarrion was getting even more ridiculous; apparently he had been killed several more times by different people.

“Ser Gregor killed him,” Alyssa said, after she had heard enough. That was the joke, after all. Ser Beric was dead because Gregor had killed him, so there was no way anybody knew where he was now. It was just an excuse to torture them.

“He can’t die,” the hedge knight, a young man with slightly rusty armour and a dented helm, said. He sounded so stupidly certain about it. Alyssa snorted. “For true. I met a man on the road, he saw Beric he did. He is still alive, but he was dead.”

Alyssa almost told him not listen to anything some men on the road said, except that was a foolish thing to say as she was doing exactly the same.

“Gregor stabbed him through the eye,” Alyssa said. And apparently impaled him, but that she had not seen. It had been a battle, and there had been no body, so when he had showed up again she had instantly dismissed his first ‘death’ as a rumour. “I can stab you through the eye. If you come back to life, I will be willing to believe what you say.”

The hedge knight did not take kindly to her suggestion. His hand went to his sword automatically, and her hand went to hers in response. Alyssa clenched her left fist and unclenched it, letting the pain focus her. She was not here to get into a fight, although she would likely win. He was on his guard now, but he was travelling alone. She could finish most one-on-one fights even if they were fair.

“If ya going’a fight, take it outside,” the innkeeper said, and Alyssa stood quickly. At least that man had balls, even if he had no way of enforcing the no fighting rule. The last inn she had stopped at she had complete avoided the innkeeper, but the coward at the one before had whimpered and hid under the counter the moment the fighting had started.

“I am not fighting,” Alyssa said, reaching into a purse on her belt and throwing down a few coppers. She turned and walked out, ignoring the hedge knight who was saying how he did not hit women and that the fight would hardly be fair as he would be able to beat her easily. It would have been more convincing without the nervous edge to his voice, but she did not turn around to contradict him. He was not worth a silver.

No, that was untrue. He was perhaps worth more, but she was deep enough into the Crownlands now that she did not want attention drawn her way. The crowds were getting thicker. The pace had slowed to a crawl even with her on her horse, as she could not speed up without running anybody down.

‘ _Forwards,’_ Alyssa thought. She clenched her fist and unclenched it repeatedly. She was not making any progress. Why the fuck was she even going to King’s Landing? The Hound was Kingsguard, so he got nothing unless they kicked him out. Suddenly all she wanted to do was to go home. Fuck forty thousand gold dragons, the castle was hers. The lions would not even try to take it from her, as Gregor was still alive. If she brought in as much food as she could and found a way to fortify the walls further, then it would be a siege. The servants hated her, but they hated him more, so they should be loyal enough… As long as she fed them well and promised them safety. Or lie. Lie, lie, lie.

She was heading south, so west was to her right. Some part of her drove her on, telling her that she should probably go from the road. Home. Home was in that direction, he would never take it from her. She would be Lady of the Keep. She would feast every day, ordering more and more food in with all the coin she could find. Invite all the smallfolk, or throw them more coin and telling them to run. Gold, why not, or jewels even. It was not like she would spend it, where everything was hers.

Perhaps everybody would flee, when they figured out what was going on. But not her. It was her home. Her home. When the smallfolk were gone, she would burn the village to the ground. Just another burned village. She would burn the lands too, for it was hers and she could burn it if she wanted to, before retreating inside her castle. Her castle she could defend, some, with crossbow bolts and arrows. What would Gregor do when he found out? Would he try to storm the walls or burn her out, when it was his own castle he would destroy? Likely. That would be funny.

She would feast, with all the food she had. Feast, and fight, enjoy baths and tapestries and who knew what else. What did a Lady of a Keep enjoy? She would not open the gates, or perhaps she should. That would be the only way to make the end so much more fantastic, the only way to take them down with her. Except, then, maybe, they could stop it. Stop the castle from burning inside out, something that was so, so stupid to do with her still inside. She would not burn though, she would fly. Fly from atop the tallest tower, atop the roof if she managed to make it that high, to see that everything from all directions would be gone. Because everything burned, and everything died, and she would burn too but only after she was dead.

“ _Everything burns, and everything dies,”_ she sang, humming the melody between words. The Riverlands Song. The tune itself was a merry one, at odds with the words. Some minstrel had played the tune, though she could not recall the words he had sang with it. It did not matter. He was dead now anyway. _“In the end we all get eaten by flies;_

_The crows’ll peck at our eyes;_

_And feast on our remains…”_

The laughter bubbled inside her and she could not stop it from escaping. It was the same laughter of the gods for tears were streaming from her eyes. She laughed, tearing the helm from her head and clamping her hand over her mouth. ‘ _Survive_.’ She would not survive if she was so fucking stupid. She would have her castle, and her dragons, but not now. It would _never_ happen if she acted rash. ‘ _Fight smart. Survive_.’

She giggled at her own thoughts, but repeated them over and over. Her mantra, her words. ‘ _Fight smart. Survive_.’ If she broke, she would die. She bit her lip to prevent herself from screaming, clenching her fist and unclenching it to try to keep focussed. She was here for more. More. Forty thousand gold dragons. Two men, forty thousand gold and a castle.

If she attacked either outright, she would die, but there were plenty of other ways men could just happen to die. ‘ _Fight smart. Survive_.’ For forty thousand gold dragons…

In truth, she had not even been able to comprehend forty thousand gold dragons. What could one gold dragon buy? The armour she wore, when new, had probably been worth two or three dragons, and even then she had balked when she had been told. Silver stags were a currency she could understand, and she had told Maester Tomas to convert it for her.

“You know how to convert it,” Maester Tomas had said. She had tried, and the number had made her jaw drop. He had looked at her, the look that suggested she had the wrong answer, and then she realized that she had missed a zero and the actual value was ten times as much. 8.4 million silver stags. “Sandor inherits before you do.”

“I am…” Alyssa had started, afraid. If he told Gregor… She had claimed a lot that she was not a kinslayer, and she wasn’t, not truly, but if it was true or not did not matter if Gregor heard someone say it.

“I am not accusing you, child. Just telling you a fact,” Maester Tomas had said calmly. Alyssa had nodded quickly, but knew then that the Hound had to die. And if he had to die anyway, what if he got second? Her father would win, of that she had no doubt. Sixty thousand gold dragons, but there was no use thinking of that now. Ser Damsel had cheated, the Hound had swooped in and Gregor had not killed either.

Ser Damsel’s death would surely have defaulted him into second, and no man’s life was worth that much especially that of a third son. Then if the Hound just happened to die, Gregor would have inherited the rest, and he would have to acknowledge her as his heir as there was nobody else. It was nothing at all personal; she could not hate two men she had never met, but it would simply have been so much better for her if they were both dead. Now, Ser Damsel’s death would gain her nothing, and she grudgingly had to admit that while what he had done was not in any way smart, when there was that much coin to be had there was no such thing as cheating and it had worked. Her father was not implacable, his brother would fight for just about anyone providing it was against him and was strong enough to keep such a fight going, and fighting smart worked although she would have to be slightly smarter than that.

‘I will not attack the Hound,’ she vowed, for if he was comparable to Gregor in any way she would die. She would watch him first, figure out where he went and whether he got drunk enough for her to either slip something in his drink or slit his throat. Then she hiccupped another laugh. The Hound killed women and children, lived for killing his family, and had spent his life guarding lions, but it was for saving a man’s life that he had to die.

_Two men, forty thousand gold dragons, and a castle._

And so Alyssa Hill continued on.

She smelled King’s Landing first. The city stank of sewage and people, but when she saw it, it was grander than anything she had ever seen. The Red Keep stretched out into the sky, breath-taking and magnificent. It was bigger than the castles Gregor’s men had taken; if those had been better than Clegane Keep they did not remain that way for long. This was luxury, brilliance, beyond anything she could have imagined. Perhaps that explained the prize, as forty thousand or even one hundred thousand gold dragons might be pocket change to the royals who lived in such a place.

It had to be one of the cruellest things she had ever seen. She had never been made to look upon such luxury, she had never been made to starve while watching others feast. The kings and queens had that much gold as pocket change, in their glorious castle, but smallfolk died trying to reach their city only to starve and die anyway. It was a slow way to go, their bodies weakening until they became defenceless. She clenched her fist and unclenched it. There was nothing she could do, except offer quick mercy, but the situation was not completely hopeless for them. They could perhaps survive, so they died slowly.

Alyssa dismounted to walk through the gate, dragging her horse behind her by the reins. She looked like a hedge knight herself, she knew, unkempt and with scruffy armour. She ensured as best she could that it did not rust, but there were large scratches on the plates and she was covered in a layer of mud and dirt. The courser she rode looked far too well-bred for anything she could afford, and when a man guarding the gate looked at her she regretted not selling the horse or trading it in for something lesser. Arrow was fast, but did not look like a horse she would be able to afford. The effect would only be heightened when they figured out she was a woman. She continued pulling Arrow forwards, trying not to draw their attention in her direction. Her vision was narrowed by her helm, but her eyes flickered to watch him a few times and he had gone back to talking to another guard.

The smallfolk stared at her as well, although some were staring at her horse. ‘ _Mercy,’_ Alyssa thought, clenching her teeth. She mounted again and drew her sword partway, daring them to approach her. As long as they just looked, she would do nothing. ‘ _Fight smart. Survive._ ’

She rode towards the castle, zigging and zagging until she found an inn. The first was full, and she asked one of the stable boys to direct her to another. The next inn appeared to also be a brothel, as all the people working there except for the innkeeper were topless women. There were no stables attached either, and she rode on to find someplace else. In the end, that was the inn she returned to, simply because she could not find any better.

First, though, she found a small sept. The Great Sept of Baelor stood atop a hill and was far grander, but this one was mainly used by desperate smallfolk and had no such luxuries. It was a simple building with seven walls, and somebody had scratched likenesses of the gods into the stone. Alyssa closed her eyes slowly opened them upon entering, and she picked up three candles and set down a copper for each. There were words to the prayers no doubt, but she could not recall them.

She knelt down by the Crone, lit a candle on the others and whispered. “Give me wisdom and show me the way.”

Next, she knelt down by the Smith, lighting another candle. “Give me strength.” It was the Smith’s strength she needed, not the Warrior’s, as what she was intending was not war but simply work done for coin and reward.

The Stranger only had three candles lit for him, and she added another. There were no words for the Stranger, none she would say out loud, but she had them in her head anyway. _Quick mercy for those who deserve and require it. Death for those who oppose me. Sandor Clegane. Gregor Clegane._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to A Wiki of Ice and Fire, a gold dragon is 210 silver stags, and a silver stag is 56 copper pennies.
> 
> Let's see if this one gets any reviews. :)


	3. Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city of King's Landing has ears.

Children tended to know more than adults did. More than adults knew they did, too, innocently repeating what they had seen or heard without really understanding it. They were also less likely to tell the Gold Cloaks on her.

Not that the Gold Cloaks were worth anything. They were more likely to be gambling in brothels and getting drunk than keeping order. She had found one passed out drunk in the dirt, and she had childishly lopped a small rock at him to see if he would stir. Then, still feeling the child, she had nudged him hard with her boot, before stealing his sword and coin. For a brief moment she’d considered taking his armour as well. Dressing as a Gold Cloak would near enough make her a Gold Cloak, like having armour and knowing to use a sword near enough made somebody a knight. But then she would still have the same problem as before: they were all men.

Kingsguard vows were also for life, but King Waters had replaced Barristan the Bold with his dog.

 _Silly,_ Alyssa scolded herself. What she could or could not have joined, had she been a man, was no more relevant than how rotten those so-called ‘fresh’ rats had been before the man selling them had burned them beyond recognition. It just meant disguising herself as a Gold Cloak was more dangerous than it was worth.

“Where does the Hound go?” she asked a boy, holding several coppers and a slice of meat in her open palm. She had even removed her helm for him, as it was said people trusted faces more than cold metal, and made sure not to glare at him for long. This was the best way to get them to stop and talk, although it cost her. If she fed them, they were more like to trust her, but it would draw attention. It would be far safer for her to threaten the boy and kill him so he could never say that a woman in armour was asking after the Hound. “Which brothels?”

“And you’ll give me food and coin?” the boy asked, approaching her cautiously.

“After you tell me,” Alyssa said, and her right hand shook when she tried to stop herself from gripping the hilt of her sword or drawing it. _Stupid._ She should be holding the food in her right hand, then she could have been focussing herself using her left. If the Hound figured out she was asking after him, even if he did not know who she was, he would kill her. She could do it. Information, then a quick death. She could do that.

But Gregor wasn’t here. His men weren’t here. They would not see her weak, and the boy was a _child._ A starving _child._ He could do her no physical harm, except he could if he told… Alyssa tasted blood inside her mouth where she had viciously bitten the inside of her cheek, and she focussed on the pain. It was only a mild pain, but it would have to do.

“Are y’ alright?” the boy asked, his face too young and too curious. No, she was not going to kill him. It would be all her if she did.

Alyssa gave him a brisk nod, cursing herself because she was being weak and stupid. She clenched her right fist anyway, just to stop the tremor although it did nothing else. “Tell me.” And so she listened to what the boy had to say, telling him she had more coin for him if he found out more and came to her.

The children of the streets had to know what was going on, or they would die, but the more she asked, the more her paranoia grew. Asking a girl was worse than asking boys, simply because she kept seeing what Gregor or his men would do. They did not fuck boys, mostly. Each time, she let the children go after they gave her the information.

The Hound did not kill her on the third day since she arrived in the city, or the fourth, and slowly she began to calm. Perhaps she was doing this right, perhaps she was not being constantly watched. He did not know she was here, or who she was. He was guarding a king, and she was some random gutter knight.

At least with Gregor and his men, she knew them. It was easy. With Gregor, it was basically the same as back at Clegane Keep and she still had Joss Stilwood. Gregor’s men were different as she had not spent extended periods of time with them before and they had some reason to hate her. They would hurt her, fuck her, or kill her if given the chance.

She had better armour, better weapons and better training. If they approached her to try, or just approached her as she would assume they would try, she would impale them on her sword and then they were hers to do with what she pleased. Most dared not try, so the numbers were ones she could fight. That she could get away with it, but she would do nothing else. Gregor’s men were for enemies and Gregor to kill, not for her, and they had long decided it was not wise to approach her without permission.That left them in a stable enough situation, and her in as safe a position as she was ever likely to be in.

This was different. She was choosing people maybe to trust slightly, in a city she had never been to in order to try and kill a man who would _probably_ also try to kill her the moment he found out about her. It was not just survival; perhaps it even went stupidly against survival as she was trying to kill the two strongest men in the realm, and the Hound had always been the barrier between her and Gregor. Before the Hound was Kingsguard, the moment her father died she would have nothing. She was better off with him alive, so she would not try to kill him. Gregor was not the smartest of men, but he was a man who had himself killed his father for the same castle. The moment he was his only heir…

She should have killed him years ago, when it had not made sense for her to do so. That was the best time to kill a man, as they would not have their guard up. Maybe the Hound did not even want the Keep; he had not returned to it for at least eighteen years. Fuck, he’d become _Kingsguard._ And… she cursed herself again.

 _No use thinking about the past. I am not weak._ Except that was exactly what she was proving herself to be.

“The Hound’s visiting a brothel,” one of the first boys she had spoken to ran up to her, holding his hand out expectantly. Lewy, she thought his name was, although she had not actually asked it. Children were like crows. Feed them, and they basically followed you… or perhaps they just smelled the food. That passed out drunk Gold Cloak had given her a fair amount of coin, so she could pay him a silver if the information was good. The boy probably had never seen a silver before, and it would keep him coming back. It would certainly keep her coming back, in his place.

“Now? Which brothel?” Alyssa asked, pausing and frowning. She had not been to the Street of Silk yet herself, so would not know one from the other based on names. “Is it one of the expensive ones?”

“I don’t know. It looks sorta expensive,” Lewy said. “But it’s not like a hundred dragons for’a whore.”

“Who would spend a hundred dragons on a whore?! Surely a fuck’s a fuck,” Alyssa exclaimed. The expensive ones were meant to be an ‘experience’, but it was the same end. Still, if they were more like to be taken in bed rather than against the wall it could be a good thing for her.

“For a hour, yeah. Whores for a king,” Lewy said. _Forty thousand gold dragons is pocket change for them._ She ought not to be distracted. “One of the whores had a king’s bastard, Janei says. She says they…” The boy went quiet.

“Killed him?” Alyssa finished, looking him straight in the eyes. He nodded nervously, taking a step back from her, and she forced herself to look away. “Alright, Lewy” – the boy did not correct her, so she supposed that actually was his name – “figure out which brothel and if the Hound goes there often. What does he drink? How much armour does he remove? How many weapons does he have with him?”

“H-how am I meant to… What if he sees me?” Lewy asked, stammering slightly.

“You run,” Alyssa suggested. “Fast. Figure it out, and I will give you a silver stag.” His face lit up at the mention of a stag, and she knew she almost had him. “Anything extra, I will give you more. Gold, might be.”

“I…”

“Ask his whores. You don’t even have to see him do it, but I will pay extra if you do,” Alyssa said, feeding him before sending him off. She only had one slice of dried meat left; now she mostly went to Flea Bottom for her own food where it was cheapest. When she went to the stables to check on Arrow, she always took a few apples for herself. She even chewed on grain, as it gave her mouth something to do. Several of the stable boys did not mind if she lay down on the hay, providing she paid a few coppers extra, but the stable master had once woken her by pouring a bucket of water over her head, telling her that he did not have place for ‘beggar knights’. He was holding a loaded crossbow, pointing it at her, and in the end she’d had to pay him a silver.

She had wondered whether or not a beggar knight was better than a gutter knight, just to keep the numbness hanging over her. _Survive._ Both of them were worse than hedge knights; that much she knew.

Quickly she headed towards Flea Bottom, paying some coppers for the brown as usual and drinking it, only occasionally having to chew the solid parts. She licked the bowl, ran her fingers along the inside, then licked her fingers before repeating the process twice to make sure she had everything. The hunger had not faded, so she paid for another portion and did the same. It still did little, and she could _feel_ people watching her. Fuck, she should pay the children to get her food as well, but then she would not have proper coin for food. They would run away with her coin, and she would have to give them some coin to pay for the food instead of just paying them afterwards.

The longer she remained in King’s Landing, the hungrier and weaker she would be, but it would not be for long. When the Hound was dead, she would not have to try and remain hidden. He would no longer be able to kill her, and Gregor would be at least a week’s ride away.

She slept in an alleyway where an overhanging roof provided some shelter, waking several times to noises that once turned out to be a bird and the other time turned out to be a cat. Both fled when she stirred.

Now she had to wait for Lewy to find her. She saw people looking at her, speaking of her too no doubt, but she forced herself to ignore them. People were brave enough to ask questions about her to other people within her earshot, but not brave enough to ask her those same questions.

Lewy returned late that morning, almost more skittish than before. He actually knew the name of the brothel, or he had known before but this time he gave it to her. The Hound went there occasionally, but not in a way that could really be predicted. He took the whores from behind like a dog, and most of his armour remained on. Alyssa nodded when he said that, mentally cursing, but the Hound did drink. How much sweetsleep could she add to wine before the taste was detectable?

No, that was wrong. She did not need more than a pinch. Once a man was asleep he was defenceless. A quick death. _Mercy._ If she could find him. She would have to get close enough, and she would have to be subtle. Or she could find a way to kill him from afar.

That night, she moved Arrow to a different stable. Then she got herself a crossbow.

 

He was dressed as a peasant, standing stooped with scruffy clothes and a hood atop his head. On his face a small grey beard grew, while the top of his head was balding. He was not the type of man who looked out of place entering dingy brothels, or sheltering in alleyways, which was exactly why Varys chose to disguise himself as such. Certain little birds demanded his attention.

Varys knew almost everything that happened in King’s Landing, and if anybody asked him he would imply he also knew the little bit that he didn’t. Knowledge was power, after all. He knew of potential dangers before anybody else in the Red Keep.

Such as what Gregor Clegane’s daughter was doing. She was feeding hungry peasant children and asking after her uncle, which would not have been an issue if she did not plan to kill him.

“She asked me to find out how much armour he wears when he fucks whores,” a small boy had told him.

“You made her think attacking him would not work, I trust,” Varys had said.

“Would it work?”

“It wouldn’t,” Varys had confirmed. “Did she give you any reasons?”

“She pays me. I don’t ask,” Lewy had said. “Her eyes are so… empty, most the time. ‘Cept when she was surprised. She feeds us, but…”

“Who is she, I wonder?” Varys had left the boy with, knowing that the boy did not know the answer as he did not answer the question straight away. The amount of people who knew Gregor Clegane had a daughter was likely the same number who knew he had once had a sister. Even Varys had only heard rumours.

Her mother would have got away with calling her a trueborn, let Gregor’s first wife present the babe as her own when Gregor returned from fighting in Robert’s Rebellion. That had not happened, as Varys had not heard of it happening. In fact, he heard nothing further about the girl until she was maybe eight or nine, when Gregor started acknowledging her as his own. After that, the rumours suggested she took after her remaining family.

She had been in King’s Landing a week, and done nothing except ask for information. Tried her best to keep it hidden too, but she was no good at subtlety. People overheard her when she spoke, and the fact she was a woman made her stand out. What she was doing was trying to get her own network together to find out about her uncle, bribing them instead of threatening, even going for children who were less likely to already have been bought. That sort of behaviour did little to remind him of Gregor Clegane, even if the end goal was something that would best be avoided.

It was a dangerous game Alyssa Hill was playing. Joffrey had a fondness for the Hound, even if his version of fondness was half surrogate father figure and half claimed ownership. His treatment of the smallfolk in King’s Landing would only get worse if he thought they killed his dog, and the smallfolk already wanted Joffrey dead. Even if Joffrey was told exactly who killed the Hound and why, Varys could count on Joffrey doing the stupidest thing he could in that situation and deciding to take it out on innocents anyway. The Hound was not a good man, but he was a loyal one, fearsome and feared in a fight, and had more honour than most of the liars in this city. He was most certainly the best of the Cleganes.

The newest whisper about her was that Alyssa Hill now had a crossbow. Nobody had seen her kill the stable master she had taken it from, but he was dead and he had once had a crossbow identical to the one she had now so it was hard not to draw the connection. Or to conclude what she planned to do now.

“Lord Tyrion is recruiting, accepts women and pays good coin,” Varys told Lewy. It was telling what someone offered others to pay for their loyalty, and the fact that she did not threaten them. Threats had not gained loyalty from her, it seemed. “She would want to know that.”

The Hound would find himself busy in the Red Keep for the next few days. If all schemes in the Seven Kingdoms were that easy to disrupt, Westeros would be a far safer place.


	4. A New Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lannisters are rich. She wants gold dragons.

Lannisters were rich. Very rich. Rich enough that although their sigil was a golden lion and their words were about roaring, it was easy to think of gold first. And debts. A Lannister always paid their debts.

‘Lord Tyrion is recruiting,’ Lewy had told her.

‘The fucking Imp?’ Alyssa had asked, glaring at Lewy. She had asked him about the Hound and he was telling her about the Imp. She had already heard enough about that man. Tywin Lannister’s twisted little son, Hand of the King who allowed or ordered babes to be killed, his smallfolk to starve and the realm to burn… the reason the Riverlands was burning, too. What was she to do? Flee Gregor like a stupid craven and then work for the nearest Lannister she saw? Kill defenceless women and children all the same? She had started laughing then, and Lewy had scampered backwards several steps without her even moving to approach him.

‘I-I’m sorry. Truly… it’s just… he pays well. And t-takes women too,’ Lewy had said. Alyssa tossed several coppers at him, focussing herself, reminding both herself and him out loud that she would not hurt him. He’d then insisted that he’d thought she would want to know, still stammering but looking slightly calmer again.

 _He pays well and takes women too._ Paid well. _He is a Lannister._ Took women too. _Desperate… or smart… probably desperate. Did he run out of drunkards and fake knights?_ Even then, if he took women perhaps he would want tiny pretty little things, either to fuck or to smile prettily barely noticed, while slipping poison to those they were sent to kill. Or both. Plain women tried harder when fucking, apparently, to make up for the fact that their tits were small or simply for the fact they were plain.

 _How well does he pay? Forty thousand gold dragons is pocket change to them…_ No. _I am not a Lannister lapdog. Clegane Keep is mine, they can keep their fucking massive castle and mountains of gold._ All she was here for was her inheritance. The rest of their gold was no more her concern than the fact that the smallfolk were starving…

… But she had fed those boys. Being in the castle would get her information as well, and if it happened to get her even more gold, who was she to argue with the will of the gods? She had prayed to the Crone to show her the way… _holy fuck I sound like a septon._

She already had a plan. It was a safer plan than showing her face inside the castle and risk the Hound figuring out who she was. But it was assumed an innocent person did not run and hide and lurk. What if she was more direct, not less? Look into the Hound’s eyes and figure out if he truly meant to kill her, perhaps get him to trust her slightly so he would be easier to kill. That way she could control what knowledge of her he got, instead of spending the time fearing that he already knew and any moment he would come and kill her. Perhaps she would get a room with stone walls where barring the door made her feel safe instead of making her wonder whether any potential attacker would hack through the walls instead.

No, her current plan was safer.

The Hound did not reappear outside of the Red Keep. Lewy had not seen him, nor had Edd or Symon or any of the other random children she asked whose names she did not know. A crossbow bolt through the skull. Anybody could use a crossbow and she had practiced on a tree to make sure she definitely knew how to aim.

The Riverlands Song was stuck in her head. She found herself humming it while she waited for the Hound to reappear, but he did not. Not to the brothel that Lewy had mentioned, not the brothel she’d had Symon confirm he definitely went to. It could be weeks before he showed up again.

The Riverlands Song was stuck in her head. She was getting hungrier, and it felt like every night she managed to get less and less sleep. She pushed everything down, trying to focus on the numbness, calling it back like an old friend. Then she heard things about the Imp, about him recruiting savages. Savage women, not plain girls to fuck. One in particular wore a necklace of body parts, either ears or tongues or even cocks depending on who was asked. _If it’s the last, they can hardly complain she has no cock. She’d have more than them._

The savages were free to drink and gamble and whore as they pleased, and if they killed nobody stopped them. They were never of want for food or good weapons or coin and slept with a roof over their heads.

A sellsword called Bronn was recruiting for the Imp.

She asked the children about Bronn, only finding out his name then. They knew less of him than they did of the Hound, and not all knew him on sight. Lewy did know, and he did not mention her change of heart.

 

“Why do you want to work for Lord Tyrion?” Bronn asked her, an amused smirk playing on his face. She had made herself more presentable again, cleaning her armour properly, scrubbing her face clean and cutting the most matted parts from her hair. The bruises had mostly faded from her face now, and though she looked slightly older and more haggard than she remembered being, she looked less like a beggar. People could afford to pay beggars less as they were desperate.

“I want gold dragons,” Alyssa said, which was the truth. She had given her name to be Jeyne Snow again, almost daring him to see if he would make the connection. People spoke, but the whispers of what could be her greatest deed or biggest mistake had not got back to her yet. She had rode fast, and King’s Landing was far enough away that nobody gave a shit. Bronn did not appear to have heard.

He was a killer. She could see it in his eyes and the way he held himself. She would not bet her life on him holding any sort of honour, in fact if she was to bet her life she would bet it on the exact opposite, unless he meant to throw her by fighting honourably.

He was throwing her, in honesty, by it being a brothel that she had found him in, though she supposed this sort of brothel was more likely to be frequented by sellswords than knights. The whores were plain things, wearing too much strange perfume probably in an attempt to make them seem unusual or exotic. They were topless, serving men drinks and tending to them, although no whore was being fucked against a table or against the wall. Bronn was leaning against the counter with a flagon of wine that he drank from occasionally. A whore had been sitting on his lap when Alyssa had arrived, but she had left when Alyssa had sat down.

“You and everybody else,” Bronn smirked at her. If he was watching her as closely as she was watching him, he was not giving an indication of it. “Every man, woman and child in this city would happily have gold dragons, but they are not all here. You want a drink?”

Alyssa grabbed his flagon from the counter and brought it to her lips, taking one swallow before setting it back down again closer to her. It was a good flagon and had some weight to it, and one would hardly poison something they themselves planned on drinking from. Not unless they had the antidote.

“You offered,” she said, although he did not comment on it.

“Have you served anybody before?” Bronn asked. Alyssa nodded, staring him down and not giving a further answer. “Anybody in particular?” Alyssa folded her right hand over her other one behind her shield, gripping the hilt of the knife she kept concealed there. It was less obvious, and she was still close enough to him that she could drive the blade through his eye… providing he remained exactly where he was. She did not see him doing that, somehow. He would not freeze up in fear, he was not drunk and slow, and he would be faster than her.

 _Stupid._ She did not have to give Gregor’s name. It was a dangerous name to give. She gave Bronn the name of the old master of arms at Clegane Keep instead, on the basis that Bronn would have no idea who he was. “He died,” she added afterwards, as an excuse of why she was no longer there.

“That’s convenient for you,” Bronn commented. Alyssa agreed wholeheartedly, but doing so out loud would confirm his suspicions, so she did not say anything. He stood then, and so did she. “Come with me. Try not to talk my ear off.”

“I won’t _talk_ it off,” Alyssa muttered, without any vigour at all. He appeared to have heard her, as he smirked.

And so she followed him. At first she thought they were heading inside the Red Keep, and they did go towards it. They went up a lot of steps, before going down a passageway, following a narrow path at the top of a cliff and making their way down some steps carved into the sheer rock face. It was very precarious, and she let Bronn go ahead, walking slowly and keeping one hand firmly against the rock face. There was a clearing at the bottom, and waves lapped up onto the rocks.

Alyssa kicked one of the rocks, and it rolled free into the water, sinking past a point where she could see it. Quickly she moved the main slab of ground where Bronn was already standing, catching her breath and wishing she’d had the forethought to bring a waterskin. Walking up and down steps in armour was far more exhausting than riding in armour or just walking around relatively flat ground.

“Try to kill me,” Bronn said, and her full attention was back on him instantly. “I will do the same to you. Unless you yield. Do you understand?”

“How much will the Imp pay me if I kill you?”

“A lot of coin if you can find him. You might want to leave me alive for that part though, I’ll argue the price up for you,” Bronn said. “Do you know how to get back?”

 _Retrace my steps. If anybody stops me cut them down._ She did not say it out loud though, and just nodded. Conversations were for talking, fights were for fighting. The only reason to speak during a fight was because you had no way of winning and were desperately trying to talk the other person out of killing you.

“You done talking then?” Bronn said. “That’s a shame. I thought we had something there.”

“Fuck off,” Alyssa said, drawing her sword and gripping her shield tight enough that her left arm throbbed in a constant rhythm. _Fight smart. Survive. Yield if you must._ She flicked her visor down.

Bronn was wearing little armour, mostly just chain mail, not even a helm atop his head. He had a sword, but not a shield. She had never seen him fight, so knew nothing of his fighting style, except he would have to move instead of withstand or he would die. _Back him against the cliff face. Do not allow him to get me into the water._ She would sink like that rock. He would not even have to worry about her body, she would just be slowly eaten by little fish. Once they ate her face, they could swim down her dead throat and reach the rest of her.

That was odd. She’d always just assumed she’d be eaten by crows and worms, or, if her father was feeling generous, just worms.

The thought almost made her start laughing, but she chewed on the inside of her cheek again to stop herself. The inside of her cheek had not yet healed, so her mouth filled with blood immediately. Then she lunged at Bronn, because she was no friend of House Tully.

He was gone from the spot he was in, moving out of her narrow field of vision, and she had to turn to see him again. She caught the blow of his sword on her shield, not that it was any more than a tap, using her shield to push his sword to the side and slashing for his sword arm. He moved backwards quickly, and he had positioned himself so that the water was behind him instead of the cliff.

 _He’d sink too._ She pushed forwards, moving to attack him so that he was not the one who had a chance to attack her. Instinct took over, and she repeated motions that she had left unpractised far too long.

Because who needed to practice when ‘fighting’ those who had never held a sword?

Any exhaustion she’d had was forgotten. With every stab she attacked Bronn like she wished to cut him in half, part of her knowing that she was fighting far too angrily, but it would not matter as long as she ended it _quickly._

Bronn was surefooted even over the crumbling ground, and his movements were almost like a dance around her. He moved further from her than necessary, and she moved to meet him. He parried, but did not attack her properly.

 _Fight smart._ She hummed the Riverlands Song under her breath, almost unheard even by herself over the clash of steel.

She slowed her attacks before she was truly exhausted, forcing herself not to chase after him, approaching him more slowly. He still danced around her, and even if she was not chasing him she had to move a great deal to keep him in her sight.

Bronn attacked her, and she lunged forwards to meet him. His sword hit her breastplate, perhaps bruising but nothing worse, and if she’d had her shield hand free she probably would have been able to grab his wrist. Snarling, she swung for his neck and he ducked under the blade, a dirk appearing in his free hand. He stabbed it into her side, and she kneed him in the stomach – she had been aiming for lower. He stumbled backwards, rolling with the impact, and managed to keep himself upright although he did not straighten completely.

_Quickly._

She could end it. Her side throbbed, and she could feel the blood flowing out of the wound, even though the blade had mostly been blocked by the straps that held her breastplate in place and the mail beneath.

He dodged to the side, his movements slowed, but her own limbs felt almost leaden with exhaustion. _Everything burns and everything dies…_ He was still faster than she was. Her blows did not come close to hitting him, and she grunted out in annoyance, forcing herself to keep going. Her side was seriously beginning to bother, the wound getting worse as her skin tore further with her movements. _Yield._ No, she was going to kill him.

He was slowing. She lunged for him, and he moved too quickly. He had only been feigning, and his blade slammed into her side before she could stop it. The armour protected her skin, but she stumbled. He moved in like a snake, and pain shot up the back on her sword hand. She slashed at him, the movement mostly uncontrolled, and he kicked her backwards. The ground came free from beneath her and she fell, twisting to make sure solid ground was where she ended up. She was not sure whether it was the water or the cliff behind her. She twisted again to get upright, then her head was ringing. Her helm was yanked from her head, and Bronn grabbed her hair. He angled a blade into the top of her neck, pressing down gradually.

Alyssa moved the grab him and the blade broke skin. She swallowed. _Yield if you must._ Would he let her? “I yield.” Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed again. The blade stopped moving, and taking several deep breaths she dropped her sword to the ground next to her. Bronn removed the blade from her neck slowly, and if she had the energy to she would have tried to stab him.

Instead she just lay there, staring up at the sky while keeping an eye on Bronn to make sure that he was not nearing her to attack her. The exhaustion felt like it was dragging her down, but for a moment she was more relaxed than she had been in over a year.

But she did not allow herself that weakness for long, and pushed herself up. Bronn tossed a waterskin in her direction and she drank from it thirstily. She pressed her other hand against the stab wound in her side, both trying to figure out how bad it was and to keep the blood in. The pain worsened at the pressure, and she bit the inside of her cheek again to stop herself from grimacing.

“What is your real name?” Bronn asked. Alyssa looked at him, slowly remembering that she had pretended to be Jeyne Snow. “Not many people from the North come down to King’s Landing, and those who are from the North don’t admit that’s where they are from.”

“Alyssa Hill,” she said. His point made sense; she had not even considered that when coming up with her fake name. Perhaps she should be Jeyne Waters, or Jeyne… what was the Dorne one again? She did not look Dornish though, and women of the Crownlands did not learn how to fight.

“You are a Clegane bastard, aren’t you?” Bronn said.

Alyssa shook her head. Not to the question, as he had already made up his mind to the answer, but to tell him that she was not going to answer any more of his questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it begins...  
> We are about to enter the Red Keep properly. Time to play the game of thrones. :)
> 
> Tell me what you think.


	5. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa and Bronn talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note about the timeline and ages: 
> 
> I’m mostly working off the show timeline, so basically rule of thumb one year per season and the characters are older. Robert’s Rebellion was about 18 years ago. Sansa is 14 and Joffrey is 17 etcetera like in the show. Alyssa is 18 at this point, and Sandor is around 31. 
> 
> (Though I’m not sure how that works with Joffrey being 17 and needing a regent, but he’s so idiotic I’m sure the powers-that-be could have insisted for his particular case!)

There was not much to know about joining up with the Imp. Essentially it was just obey whatever Bronn told her, or whatever the Imp told her, and she would get a lot of coin and her needs catered for. _If I stay,_ Alyssa wondered passively, for the moment too exhausted to really consider caring about the answer, _which Clegane will kill me first? The Hound when he figures out who I am, or Gregor when he catches me here?_ She chuckled silently to herself.

She had moved enough so that she was sitting with her back against the cliff-face. She had pushed some fabric into the gap left by Bronn’s knife, hoping to soak up the blood, but she could see a red stain forming. There was nothing further she could do without removing her breastplate and her attempt at dealing with the wound was a clumsy at best. The ache in her left arm was slowly dulling from when his sword had hit her shield repeatedly, worsening again every time she clenched her fist. If she stopped that motion, she was pretty sure she would enjoy the sea breeze and the slight sunlight too much and drift off.

“He does not like the killing of children,” Bronn said, approaching her slowly with a waterskin in hand. He’d only brought the two, and she’d already finished the first. This one he was only sharing with her, and although he seemed curious and intrigued by her she knew information was not the only price he wanted.

“Explain the bastards,” Alyssa said, although she was in no position to make any demands. She tossed her empty waterskin at him and he poured what was perhaps several mouthfuls of water into it.

“Joffrey,” Bronn said. “Tyrion did not know until it had happened.”

“He’s Hand.”

“Joffrey is king,” Bronn said. “What the king wants, the king gets.”

Alyssa frowned. “Did the Imp really not know?”

“He did not,” Bronn confirmed, and she was not sure whether she believed him. _It doesn’t matter,_ she told herself. “Your turn. Which one’s your father?”

“You have two guesses,” Alyssa said. That was information, but she only noticed it after she had said it. She had basically confirmed Clegane, and then limited him to one generation of Cleganes, as she looked old enough that Gregor’s father could have sired her just before he died. Men had certain needs and the man had been lacking of a wife for several years at the time of his death.

“Will you tell me which guess is correct?” Bronn asked, amused.

 _The Hound,_ she thought, if she was going to bet on the Clegane most like to kill her. She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment and leaning back, before nodding. _Nobody said fair combat. If I kill Bronn the Imp’ll still pay me._ It would only be a few days that he knew this for. The thought disappointed her, and she could not figure out why.

Bronn looked thoughtful.

“The Mountain,” he said.

“Why?”

“Somebody trained you to fight. You aren’t from King’s Landing,” Bronn said. “Not that they would have let you train to fight in King’s Landing. If you were in the Red Keep they would have put you in a fancy dress, mocked you as a bastard or a dog or a bastard dog.”

Or she would have ended up living with whatever whore had been her mother and then probably become a whore herself. Perhaps somebody would notice the family resemblance sooner or later, but then she would have been completely defenceless and completely useless at doing anything except spreading her legs.

“True enough. ‘Cept I’d be a bitch,” she said, holding out her hand expectantly. He tossed the waterskin in her direction and it turned out she was right. He had given her maybe three mouthfuls of water. She forced herself to move so that she was on her knees, then used the rock to help get herself onto her feet. Her helm was still on the ground from when Bronn had removed it, and he moved to pick it up for her. “I want that back.”

“Of course, my lady,” he said with a mocking motion that was _almost_ a bow, and she realized what she would miss if she killed Bronn. He had let her yield, and it had been a brilliant proper fight. How many men would do that for her? She could let her fury out on him properly, and he would just dance around her blows. It was like smacking at a fly, something that ought to make her more annoyed but somehow made her calmer when she remembered herself again. She did not have to focus on remaining numb, as for the moment she was content enough not to need it.

He had let her yield, so he was not going to stab her in the back. Better him behind her than in front, that way he could not run off. Her movements were sluggish, and she swapped her shield to her right hand so she could use her left to steady herself against the cliff face.

 _‘Don’t tell anybody.’_ Meant he was more likely to. _Think. Or kill Bronn._ Bronn was a killer. Killing him would be mercy, just for others and not for him. _Either use your mind or your sword. Or just push him into the fucking sea._ But she did not move to do so, or cease her steady rhythm of forcing herself up the steps.

“We spar again,” Alyssa said out loud. Bronn was close behind her and she could hear him exhale at that suggestion. They were nearing the top of the stairs and she paused, leaning against the rock. Her side throbbed, her breaths were shallow and ragged no matter how hard she tried to steady them and loose strands wet hair clung to her face as there was no helm to keep it behind her.

“We use sparring swords or you start paying me in gold,” Bronn said.

“Craven,” she muttered. Sparring swords were for children who could not be trusted not to drop the swords on their own feet, or not to grab the blade instead of the hilt. One could still beat somebody to death using them, it was just more painful than quickly being stabbed.

“My services are not free,” he said. “You want something from me, you pay like everybody else.”

 _He can die._ He was extremely close to her, and she clenched her fist. _Focus. Onwards. Survive._ The red stain on her side was growing, she was not in any state for a fight. So she just nodded. Bronn did not keep the silence for long, then started explaining to her something apparently important about Moon Brothers and Black Ears and Stone Crows and Burned Men. The first two apparently had close ties, but not the second and the third, and the fourth was feared by all. Remaining silent and not provoking them seemed like the best course of action, as she doubted she would be able to tell them all apart. It was a precarious balance, and precarious balances did not do well with outside influences.

The journey back to the inn she stayed at the previous night was too long, and oddly Bronn remained by her side. He would demand payment; that was the type of person he was. He already knew who she was, so it would get around. With the boys she’d never given them a name or anything.

 _In for a copper, in for a dragon._ She could hardly die twice, so she might as well risk more to try to live.

“What do you know of the Hound?” she asked, the words not coming out near as harsh as they usually did as she was focussing hard to speak and walk at the same time. “Is he the type that kills you for what your parents did?”

Bronn did not know the answer. She could tell even before he spoke. “I don’t know him quite that well. What did your father do to him?”

Alyssa gave him a look. “You know who he is. I fled him.” No more of that.

At some point Bronn had placed a hand on her arm and was leading her. She had paid for this night mostly just so she could keep her crossbow somewhere that seemed vaguely safe, but Bronn went to speak to the innkeeper anyway.

She went up to her room, harshly yanking at the straps to remove her gauntlets and dropping them to the ground. As much as she just wanted to collapse onto the bed, she had to get her breastplate off and deal with the wound properly. At least as properly as she could, as nothing she owned was particularly clean and the closest thing to a maester’s potion she had was wine she could boil. She removed as much armour as she was easily able. Blood stained her fingers when she loosened the straps on that side, and taking several deep breaths she tried to force herself to move. She could not expect a squire, even if she was injured. Squires hardly grew on trees like fruit, and even if they did half of them would probably be poison anyway waiting to kill her. Suddenly she missed Joss, although in truth he was Gregor's squire. Gods, she’d fucked that one up by leaving him with a no doubt pissed off Gregor. Not that Gregor wouldn’t have found a reason to be pissed off anyway. She’d just left him there without even thinking about it.

There was a knock on the door and she blinked, remembering she was in the inn. The door was barred, although she could not remember barring it, and she staggered over, unbarred it and pulled it open. Bronn was on the other side. If he wanted her dead, all he would have had to do was push that blade deeper into her throat. One could hardly be more at somebody’s mercy than that. He could have killed her so easily, especially if he had not paused.

 _A man and a woman in an inn and one helps the other out of their armour._ How many stories had she heard that started like this? _I’m not a whore and I’m not paying Bronn._ Slightly different. There were worse people to fuck though. Bronn was not comely, but not ugly either, and she did not dislike him.

She gave him the same nod she would give Joss when she wanted him to do the same thing and he approached her slowly. Removing her breastplate was still painful even with the second person, and he helped her with the chainmail although that she could have done herself. Her right hand immediately went to her side, more quickly than she was expecting as her arm felt oddly light, before Bronn caught it with his left hand.

“I can do the rest,” she said, startling when he started rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. His touch was oddly gentle. Even Maester Tomas was not that gentle with her when he patched her up. Perhaps Lorena… her mother's sister... but Alyssa could not mistake him for a woman. She reminded herself again that if he meant her dead he would already easily have killed her. There was nothing in his eyes that said he wanted to hurt her. This was actually the opposite of him trying to hurt her.

He left her, but not for long, to grab some wine to wash her wound out with. She grabbed it from him, hissing in pain as she probed at the wound to wash it out. It was a small wound, but it was fairly deep and the skin had torn further. Bronn had found her something fairly clean to soak up the blood, and she pressed it against her side.

“Take several days to rest. I will send a maester for you,” Bronn said, then smirked at her. “The payment is coming out of your salary.”

She laughed weakly at that.

He did give her the helm back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alyssa, kindness confuses her. 'Not dislike'. We are making progress. 
> 
> I'll try to get Sandor to show up in the next chapter, if not it is definitely the one after that.
> 
> Tell me what you think :)


	6. The Red Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion sees the flaws in a plan that is unknown to him.

Bronn saw Shae on his way to Tyrion’s chamber and did not acknowledge her at all. The former whore and camp follower was a handmaiden now, since Tyrion had found Varys speaking to her. She ought to be more cautious though. Bronn knocked on Tyrion’s door, pushing it open. Tyrion was sitting on a chair pouring himself some wine, grinning and looking slightly flushed.

“Must have been some exciting… paperwork,” Bronn said, glancing at some scrolls that were laying out on the desk.

“I think she’s beginning to forgive me,” Tyrion said. “This city. Try to keep somebody safe, and you have to get on your knees and _beg_ their forgiveness.”

“Was that really why you were on your knees?” Bronn said. Tyrion would likely be a little less mopey now. A man needed to have a healthy balance between fighting and fucking, and since Tyrion met Shae he hadn’t had any other whores. Without Shae, that meant he was doing a lot more plotting – the version of fighting he was good at – than usual. Currently he was trying to figure out which of Varys, Petyr Baelish and Grand Maester Pycelle weren’t to be trusted. Bronn had given him the answer of ‘all’, but Tyrion had a scheme going which would tell him who could be trusted the _least._ ‘All of them,’ Bronn had said. ‘You are just finding the stupidest or most impatient one.’ It was still a good thing to find out.

“Started out that way,” Tyrion said. “How is recruiting going?”

“This morning I found a drunk old hedge knight who claimed he was as good as Barristan the Bold. He then poured his wine all over himself and dropped his sword on the ground,” Bronn said.

“So he’ll be able to beat half the Kingsguard when sober?” Tyrion asked, smirking.

“Probably. He just wasn’t all that sober, is the problem. He smelled like he hasn’t been sober in years,” Bronn said. “He happily took one of the women though. Gregor Clegane’s daughter just frightened them all away.”

Tyrion looked shocked. Some wine dribbled from his mouth. “ _Gregor Clegane’s_ daughter?”

“Yes,” Bronn said. He had been all over Westeros, across the Narrow Sea and beyond the Wall, but he had never met a woman quite like her. She’d fought well, and absolutely viciously, lasting far longer than he had expected even though he had hardly picked the closest clearing for them to have their fight in. When he’d yanked the helm from her head she’d been flushed and sweaty, but her eyes had been glowing rather than the way she had glared him down before, and he had wondered whether she enjoyed fucking as much as she enjoyed fighting. She was by no means pretty, her face was too harsh and too haggard, and she was muscular where she should have been curvy.

Yet there was something fragile about her as well. He doubted she had even had a good fuck with the way she had reacted simply by him rubbing the back of her hand. It was like he had managed to get close enough to an injured feral cat and it was just about letting him stroke the top of its head, enjoying it but untrusting. When she’d lifted her top to deal with her wound, he had seen both how muscular she was and the scars marring her skin especially on her back. Somebody had whipped her, and she had been defenceless then. A beating rather than a battle.

She was a killer. Although she had not given him a number, of that he had no doubt. Strong and brutal, but he had almost undone her with a single touch. How many times would he have to touch her in order to undo her completely?

But he would have to be careful. Whores were sweet, but women who came to him without having to be paid were even sweeter. They were the ones who had husbands, or protective brothers or parents. Once he had been smacked by a woman’s mother, who ironically enough did not know what he and her daughter had been doing – the smack had simply been for _talking_ to the daughter in a way that had made her blush prettily. With the men particularly, Bronn would consider whether he could take them in a fight, and most of the time he would conclude that he could. With Alyssa though…

“If you ever want people to fear the Mountain _more,_ you should get them to fight his daughter,” Bronn said. “Then let them realize he is _much_ larger and _much_ stronger, wields a _much_ bigger sword and has _much_ more experience.”

“Gregor Clegane let his _daughter_ learn to fight?” Tyrion repeated, only seeming to accept it because Bronn was being insistent. “That’s impressive, truly. Father’s _mad dog_ allowed his daughter to do something Father never let Cersei do. That will definitely make her day.” Cersei would be jealous. She would not see the payoff as worth it, but that would not stop her from disliking and deriding Alyssa for it.

“It’s pretty undeniable once you see it,” Bronn said. “Here was me thinking her and the Hound would be the main problem. I would still not leave the two of them in the same room together.”

“Do you think she’s here to kill him?” Tyrion asked.

“Maybe. She said she’s here for coin and wasn’t lying,” Bronn said. “But she fears him. Worries that he will kill her to get back at the Mountain. Do you know if he’s that type?”

“I heard he tracked down one of his brother’s bastards once. A girl, and he let her live. I’m not sure what he would have done if it was a boy,” Tyrion said. “If there was an obvious male bastard, Gregor would have trained him before training a girl.”

“Probably forgot where he stuck his cock,” Bronn said. “Alyssa definitely takes after him. If there is a child who doesn’t, who knows if it’s actually his?”

“How much do you know about her?” Tyrion asked.

“As much as you know about Shae,” Bronn said. Not all that much. If Alyssa did not want to tell him something, she would just glare him down instead or give him a short answer with no elaboration.

“I’m not worried about Shae trying to kill the Hound and bringing a furious Mountain in our direction,” Tyrion said.

“Shae probably has a higher chance of succeeding. His guard won’t be up as much with her,” Bronn said. “Alyssa told me she fled her father.”

“I don’t see the Mountain around anywhere, and he wouldn’t have sent his daughter to run amok in King’s Landing,” Tyrion said. “So she fled to the one other family member she knows she has left who she is worried might kill her. Is that all she told you? That she fled?”

“She does not want little children to die,” Bronn said. “When I told her that you didn’t, she challenged me about the bastards. She was the one who brought up the Hound.” She had brought it up for a reason, or she would not have said a thing. One way or another, the Hound was a major reason if not _the_ reason she was here. ‘ _I fled him.’_ “The Hound is Kingsguard. What will his death get her?”

“Gregor inherits first. If Gregor dies… I would say the Wall would melt before my sweet sister allows his female bastard to inherit anything. Clegane Keep is far more likely to become Kettleblack Castle,” Tyrion said.

 

For most of the first day, Alyssa slept deeply, waking suddenly several times to find that many hours had passed. Each time she awoke she thought she should probably move or eat only to fall back into sleep before she could. Then she started dreaming again, odd dreams. The maester in motley. Lorena… that was bad… why the fuck was she… Bronn’s fault… Bronn.

That time she awoke properly, for more than a few moments, and was able to make herself move as she could no longer remain in place. The only food she could still afford was a bowl of brown from Flea Bottom, and she could now navigate there without thinking about it. Without her armour and shield she felt naked, and she reminded herself repeatedly that she still had a sword and that the people surrounding her were peasants. Except for the City Watch, who she rarely came across, nobody else was wearing armour. And she could run, if need be. If she wore armour, she would currently be too slow to fight properly, and if she could not fight properly she might as well be able to run.

She traded several of the blades she had collected from the Goat’s men to a blacksmith in exchange for using a whetstone. A blacksmith already had many blades, a few more would make no difference. It was still a poor trade, and what she had done to get the blades was stupid. She saw that now.

By the time she had to meet Bronn again, she was back in full armour with a sword on each hip, half a dozen knives on her sword-belt, and another knife concealed behind the back of her shield. The blood had mostly washed out of the strap with a bit of scrubbing, and it was barely visible from afar.

“How much did I pay the maester?” Alyssa asked Bronn when he showed up.

“How was he?” Bronn asked, and he appeared to be checking her for injuries. When he seemed satisfied, he motioned for her to follow him.

“Better suited to motley,” Alyssa muttered, sniggering just thinking about it. Bronn looked amused and waited for her to continue.

“Alright, what did he do?” he prompted her.

“Said I should get married and find a rich strong knight to take care of me like my stepmothers did,” Alyssa said. It had been her who had put it into those words, simply to mock the entire notion. The maester had simply tried to convince her using nice words instead of harsh ones that a woman had no purpose pretending to be a warrior no matter how strong she was, and suggested that she should find a husband to take care of her.

“Did he now?” Bronn said. “Did _he_ specifically use the words ‘rich strong knight’ or ‘your stepmothers’?”

“I did,” she admitted. “Though what bastard can aim so high?”

“Don’t worry, I think you would make a horrible wife,” Bronn said, and Alyssa snorted.

“I would,” she agreed, smiling at him even though he could not see it through her visor, then frowning when she realized she was smiling. She clenched her fist and focussed on the throbbing in her side. Bronn was a killer. He would kill her and betray her. He was not her friend, as he had no reason to be her friend. Joss was her friend because he needed her and she’d told him, well, not precisely _how_ to deal with Gregor as she did not have that worked out completely herself, but the basic things to do and avoid before he developed the instinct for it himself. It was easier to be a team with him than to fight him as they were stuck together. She was not going to stay here long, just until she killed the Hound. Then she would go, and Bronn would remain. He had no reason to do anything for her, except maybe to keep her around until he fucked her. That he would only do that once as she was a novelty fuck and nothing more.

 _Stupid._ She tasted blood in her mouth and clenched her fist again, forcing herself to stop thinking about it, focussing instead on the route they were taking around the Red Keep. Somehow it managed to be even grander inside than out, and the fury that thought brought was a welcome distraction.

Clegane Keep had a village surrounding it. The people in the village were poor, yet Clegane Keep itself was hardly anything fancy to look at. It was warm, but slightly derelict, and living there came at the cost of putting up with Gregor Clegane. Nobody outside envied those who had no place better to go than inside, and those who were inside had proper food and a decent roof over their heads at the very least. The only other keeps she had properly been inside were the two she had helped raid with Gregor and his men, and everything was put to the torch at the end so there was nothing left grand about those.

 _The people outside aren’t being put to the torch,_ she thought. _Slowly starving, but not that._ One could get used to cruelty, and the cruelty of watching perfection was just a type of cruelty she was not used to. No noble cared about the smallfolk. Castle doors remained firmly shut when villagers screamed and villages outside burned. The king and the queen had their kingly and queenly right to care less than most.

She clenched her fist and unclenched it. No use thinking about the past, no use comparing this to something else she might have seen. The Red Keep was what it was.

“Is it just the bricks?” Alyssa asked. Bronn looked at her.

“What do you mean?” Bronn asked.

“Why it is called the Red Keep. Or was there a massacre?” Alyssa said. The Targaryen lot had been massacred during Robert’s Rebellion, but the name probably predated all of that. The Targaryens did have a pile of mad kings.

“Maegor the Cruel finished the construction,” Bronn said. “Then had everybody killed, so they would not reveal where the secret passages are.”

 _As soon as another knows a secret, it is no secret._ Instead of saying that out loud, she just nodded. Gregor had killed… _None of that._ It had been for a lesser reason, and that was all that mattered. Kings could order people dead for nothing. At least killing people to protect a secret served a purpose.

She should drive a blade through Bronn’s eye. They were close enough together, if she pressed him against the wall and did it quick. _Stupid!_ She tried to force the anger back down again until she felt nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

She felt nothing when she passed a pair of white cloaks guarding a door. One of them looked like his jowls would wobble for a full minute after every time he stopped talking, and the other was a short man who looked like he could just about beat the first in a fight. _Gregor could kill them both with a single swipe of his sword._ She probably could too, if she found a greatsword somewhere. Cut through the fat one’s neck at an angle that would continue into the skull of the short one. They were standing in front of a door, but so closely together that they would probably trip over each other if they tried to fight. A longsword would not have quite enough force behind it. She would have to swing twice.

“Ser Boros Blount and Ser Preston Greenfield,” Bronn said when they were out of earshot. They had to be rich, she decided, although she had never heard of their family names. “Loyal to the queen and good for nothing except beating up little girls. In a real battle they would shit themselves.”

Alyssa nodded and continued on. Every man she came across she watched, remembering his face and picking out ones who would be most dangerous in a fight.

“Tyrion wants to speak to you,” Bronn said, as they neared the tower that he had said was called the Tower of the Hand. “Be nice to him and he might pay you extra.”

“Really?” she asked. Bronn shrugged.

“Can’t hurt,” he said.

She followed him up the steps, using the pain in her side to focus, and he led her into a room with a large table laden with food. The Imp was a twisted little man, like she had heard. His face was misshapen, his eyes were different colours and when he stood to greet them he was maybe four feet tall. He had none of the beauty the Queen Regent or the Kingslayer had, but he still had the Lannister blonde hair and the Lannister gold, the latter being the only part of a Lannister that was of any use to her. _Be nice to him and he might pay you extra._

“Alyssa Hill,” Bronn introduced her, and she removed her helm and looked at him for several seconds before looking upwards slightly so that she was not glaring at him directly. She’d had a good look already. It was a dwarf. She had seen a dwarf before, in the mummers show during the one tourney her father had taken her to.

He was watching her though, so she met his gaze. _Did Catelyn Tully really kidnap you?_ The thought came unbidden and she clenched her fist tightly, trying to stop the anger that was beginning to burn inside her again. Do they not have the Rains of Castamere up in the North? Or wherever the fuck that woman was staying. _Could she really be that stupid? Could you?_ Surely not. _Or are you so weak you needed your father to start a war for you in order to make you feel strong?_

“She’s on her best behaviour. Providing you pay her extra,” Bronn said, and Alyssa scowled at him.

“How much extra payment did you promise her?” the Imp asked, his ugly face twisted into what was probably amusement when he looked at Bronn. _It’s your fault._ She clenched her fist tightly, telling herself that she did not care. She was not stupid enough to kill Tywin Lannister’s son. He and Bronn were still talking, and she ignored them, focussing on the food instead. It was nice food.

“Are we going to eat?” she asked, interrupting them. If this meal was outside in the city, it would have cost a minimum of five hundred gold dragons. The smell was wonderful, but she waited.

“Of course, help yourself,” the Imp said and she waited for him to collect some food for himself, before deciding for no particular reason that it would not be poisoned and tucking in anyway. The meat was warm and succulent and just… _perfect._ She was far hungrier than she thought she was and grabbed an entire joint from the centre of the table and started tearing it apart with her teeth. The table had various different types of meat, and also cheeses, a type of pie, apples and several fruits she did not recognize. Bread too, but nice looking bread not the blackened loaves that could be bought in the city. There was a special tray with butter in the shape of a sleeping lion, and small bowls of preserves. Ravenously she stuffed her face with as much of it as she could, balancing the rich meat out with soft bread, using the flavour to distract from the Imp and whatever words were coming out of his twisted mouth. If he paid her, she was essentially a sellsword. What part of that required explanation? She would kill whoever he told her to.

 _He does not like the killing of children._ If he asked her to kill a child, she vowed, she would kill somebody _the size_ of a child. Face smashed in or whole body burned, who would know the difference? She would gouge out his mismatched eyes to be safe.

 _No killing Tywin Lannister’s son,_ she reminded herself. She grabbed a bread roll and bit into it.

“Tyrion asked you a question,” Bronn said, plucking the rest of the bread roll out of her hand. She flinched, looking up and in the general direction of the dwarf. Bronn was sitting between him and her, as would be expected of a bodyguard, and she was glad for him there. He would stop her from doing anything stupid. “Your table manners need work.”

And suddenly a smile twitched at the edges of her lips. How did Bronn do that?

“Fuck you,” she muttered at him, then looking pointedly at the Imp and snatching the bread back from Bronn. “Question?” _Be nice to him and he might pay you extra._ Except she no longer cared about that. She would regret it and think of herself as weak later, she knew, but she didn’t.

“What are you doing in King’s Landing?” the Imp asked.

“I told Bronn,” Alyssa said. “Coin.” _Be nice._ “M’lord.”

“ _Whose_ coin?”

“Yours,” Alyssa said. Bronn gave the Imp an ‘I told you so’ look, and the Imp did not look amused. Apparently she still had the rest of the bread roll in her left hand as it gave slight resistance when she squeezed it tightly.

“Are you going to try to kill the Hound?” the Imp asked, and she shot Bronn a glare. It took all her self-control not to attack him. She stuffed the now-extremely-squashed bread into her mouth, scooping up some of the sweet preserves with her other hand and licking her fingers.

“Depends,” she said with her mouth still half full, then she finished chewing and swallowed.

“On what?” the Imp prompted.

 _On whether I succeed._ “Whether he tries to kill me.”

“You know, I’ve got just the game you’d enjoy. You don’t have to speak at all, just drink,” Tyrion said. “Unless I guess something wrong about you, then I drink. I’m nowhere near as drunk as I want to be, if you are up to it.”

 _Half the drunkards in the Seven Kingdoms would fall for that. Get fools to confess to just about anything._ Alyssa laughed coldly, tearing a leg off a chicken in the middle of the table and eating it quickly. She looked at Bronn.

“This game does get him drunk. He completely lost against a camp follower,” Bronn said.

“The drunker I am, the less I can fight,” Alyssa said. “The less I can run. The more like I am to die.”

“Alright then. I get three guesses,” the Imp said, holding out a jug of wine and choosing three glasses, filling them up about a third of the way. “If I guess correctly each time, you will not end up drinking more than one glass of wine in total. If that gets you too drunk to fight, it’s a wonder you’ve ever walked past a tavern without passing out.”

“No,” she said coldly, standing up. “I follow your orders and you pay me. You need to know nothing of me.”

And that twisted little shit of a man pointed out exactly what was wrong with her stupid, stupid declaration, and reminded her how little power she truly had as he was the one with the gold, with Bronn, with his army of savages. She ought to have kept her fucking mouth shut.

He simply set a gold coin onto the table and ordered her to play his stupid little game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Tyrion! Definitely one of my favourite characters, although unfortunately only a few select characters in-universe agree that he is awesome.
> 
> Alyssa did walk right into that one at the end. Bronn is subtly trying to hide the fact that he is smirking round about now.
> 
> This chapter got sort of longer than expected. More and more characters are coming in now. Alyssa and Sandor interaction will probably be in the chapter after the next one.


	7. The Lannister Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trapped Alyssa is given a bit of a reality check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, any lyrics you recognize as the Rains of Castamere are not mine at all whatsoever.

Alyssa froze into place at the Imp’s words, staring at the coin he placed onto the table in front of him and clenching both of her fists tightly. _He has all the power._ She tried to remind herself of that, even though it was hard to remember. He was a _dwarf,_ but he was a _Lannister._ No matter how little he was he could very easily fuck everything up for her. If she attacked him, she would die. At the very least she would be fleeing for her life again, and she would truly have nowhere to go.

_And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_

The Lannisters were a great deal smarter than Gregor was, and more patient. Maester Tomas had taught her Tywin Lannister’s song, and described him as the most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms even after living in Clegane Keep for near forty years. Tywin Lannister would kill entire families for slights against him, and he never forgot. A Lannister always paid their debts.

Alyssa sat back down slowly. She wanted to smash the Imp’s fucking face in, or make him _wish_ it was his face, but she could not react. She could not do anything, as she was completely trapped and it was her own fault. _Fight smart. Survive._ She knew this. He was smaller than her, but he was a _Lannister. Only a cat of a different coat, that’s all the truth I know._

She had to obey. No way to fight back without dying or harming herself badly, and no way to flee, so she had to withstand and deflect. She steeled herself in preparation, forcing any fury and any emotion she felt back down. There was no hatred for the little Lannister, because she could not hate him if she wanted to survive with him. He was simply nothing to her.

And Bronn. He was nothing to her either. He just had even less to offer her.

“Three guesses,” she said. She looked at neither of them, staring straight ahead instead.

“In my experience, people tend to be more enthusiastic to drink expensive wine and earn a gold dragon. I haven’t had to try hard to talk people into it before,” the Imp said.

“Perhaps you just have to pay her more,” Bronn said, smirking and winking at her although he had tensed slightly in preparation for a fight. “Set enough coin in front of her and she’ll forget she doesn’t like you all that much.”

“What is she paying you for?” the Imp asked, mildly amused, and Alyssa realized what Bronn was playing at. He had asked for gold for his services.

“Nothing,” Bronn said. “Yet.”

The Imp sighed and shook his head.

“Don’t encourage him,” he told her.

“You _are_ a Lannister,” Alyssa stated, leaving it up to him how to interpret her words. _In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws._

“I misspoke. Bronn, don’t encourage Alyssa,” the Imp said, and Bronn started chuckling. “Alright, I think you’ll find making people happy is one of my skills.” He placed one more gold coin on the table next to the first. “Have fun, both of you. But first, you owe me some information.”

“I do,” she said, stupidly feeling less trapped than she actually was. She was not the one who had argued the price up, and the Imp and Bronn were working together. No, the Imp paid Bronn. Bronn was just an opportunist who would not turn down the opportunity to get more coin, but that coin would truly come from the Imp and not from her. “Three guesses.”

“You are afraid of the Hound,” the Imp said, watching her face intently. “You are afraid he will see too much of your father in you and kill you for it, but despite that he is the true reason you are here.”

She could not deny it. They already knew she worried about the Hound killing her, and his reasoning seemed true although she had not put it into words. If he found out what she had asked those boys any denial would seem like a lie. Slowly she took a drink. It was good wine, very rich and not watered down. Drinking it made her thirstier, and it left her mouth dry.

“He’s not as bad as Gregor,” the Imp said. _He’s smaller and weaker._ “You know the two of you are going to live in the Red Keep together, and it will be so much easier for everybody if you can manage it without fighting each other to the death.” He paused, appearing to wait for a reaction out of her, and she nodded. She had no intention of it coming to a fight. She would not win a fight. “His death, in case you were even thinking about it, will gain you nothing. You will not inherit anything, not even if your father also happens to die.”

 _A lie!_ That cut through everything, and she struggled to force her emotions down again. She needed Clegane Keep. It was hers. It was hers. _I feel nothing,_ she told herself. She told herself that several times before it was even close to being true again.

“I am Gregor’s heir,” Alyssa said. She had known the lions could try to take her home from her, and the twisted little lion had just confirmed it to her. But it was hers. Her home, her home. Hers.

“Just like I am my father’s,” the Imp said.

“You are Hand and he started a war for you,” Alyssa stated. He should just finish off with his guesses, then she would get two whole gold dragons and be allowed to leave. She would get Clegane Keep, one way or another. She just needed to get out of his presence and think this through. Did Gregor officially have to make her his heir? How would she get that out of him after she had killed his brother? _He’ll have no choice._ Stupid, this was Gregor. Whether she or the Hound survived, Gregor would kill whoever was left for killing whoever died, leaving him with no heirs. It should have been obvious to her from onset. The Hound could just happen to die, but if she was even near him at the time, Gregor would suspect and if Gregor suspected he would still kill her. Suddenly she wanted to laugh. She clamped her teeth down on the inside of her cheek, just failing to stop the slight choking sound that escaped her and turning it into a sort of cough.

The Imp watched her curiously, but it was at her words as he did not know what she was thinking about.

“Nobody can slight Father, you see. Kidnapping even the least of the Lannisters is beyond a slight. I would even go so far to say that it is a personal insult,” the Imp said, then holding his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “Even if it is only a _small_ one.”

Bronn snorted and Alyssa clenched her fist to hold back the laughter. Had somebody gelded Tywin Lannister? Was that the price of the song? The song told people how dangerous he was, but for somebody with nothing and nobody left to lose… work in the castle, sneak past the guards, geld him, then throw themselves out of a window or something. The only curious thing was why they would keep him alive, but perhaps they deemed taking Tywin’s manhood from him a worse punishment than taking his life.

Otherwise, if a dwarf was no heir, Tywin was a man. All he had to do was take another wife and fuck her, then sooner or later he would get another better heir unless he was very bad at staying married. If he’d started as soon as the Kingslayer had joined Kingsguard, his new son would already be of age. Even if he only got girls, they could marry cousins and their last name would still be Lannister. If Gregor had understood what little brothers were for, and the Hound had a son, that was the way she would have become Clegane. Nobody would have disputed her claim then.

“He was a bit disappointed at the end to find me alive, so he promptly placed me in a vanguard. I am exactly as good a warrior as you’d expect me to be, which is a bit of a problem when fighting against people who are exactly as good as you expect _them_ to be,” the Imp continued.

“You are alive,” she said. “Hand of the King. Own recruiter.” She nodded at Bronn. “Own army.”

“A bastard daughter of Gregor Clegane, yet you are somehow alive, and he let you train how to fight,” the Imp said.

“He did,” Alyssa said.

“That was not a guess,” the Imp pointed out, although she had not moved to drink. She just sat motionless, waiting. “You killed somebody. That’s why he let you.”

Alyssa drank, and that time the wine tasted slightly better as she was beginning to grow accustomed to the taste.

“Who did you kill?” Bronn asked and she looked at him. “I’m not playing the game. I can ask questions.”

“A cunt. He had it coming,” she said. The laughter almost came back then, for all of Gregor’s men knew _a_ version of the story. A distorted and exaggerated and rather untrue version, but a version she had never corrected. She allowed herself to give out a snort, but she had to keep complete control of herself. _I feel nothing._

“The first person I killed swung an axe at me,” Bronn said.

“Sword, but sheathed. He grabbed me,” Alyssa said. His blood had just been so warm. That was the part she remembered most of all, that and the utter _coldness._ It had been… not a proper accident as she had aimed for the major blood vessels, but wild, desperate and frantic slashing that had only worked because the man had not expected her to fight back or be armed and had not been wearing armour. True luck rather than skill. His blood had splashed her in the face, covered her already wet clothes, so very warm. When the second man had overpowered her and dragged her back to the Keep, she had curled up against his chest because although she thought he was delivering her to her death, he had been so, so warm too. The memory somehow made her feel cold again, despite the fact that the room was warm and her armour made her warmer. It stopped her laughing if nothing else. “Should have been wearing armour.”

Bronn smirked. “She wore a little bit of armour. Mismatched, leather mostly. I impaled her on the end of my sword.”

“ _She?”_

“Axe,” Bronn said. She nodded, conceding the point. No woman had ever truly physically harmed her, or tried in a way that was likely to succeed. “She was a clanswoman, don’t remember the clan.”

“Are there many?” Alyssa asked.

“Far more than the ones Tyrion has got here,” Bronn said. “What happened next?”

“The remaining man brought me back to Gregor,” Alyssa said. Lorena had always said that if Gregor ever caught her, she would be lucky if he killed her quick. She smiled coldly at Bronn. “Drenched in blood not my own, one man down.” She had been too cold to shiver, too cold to move, terrified but knowing there was nothing she could do. He would kill her, and not quickly.

But he hadn’t. Instead he had made her strong.

She leant forwards, grabbed the glass and looked at the Imp. “One more guess.” For the first time, his gaze almost made her shudder. _And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours._

“Gregor trained you up and you grew up at Clegane Keep. You had years to flee, so why do it now?” the Imp asked, and Alyssa regarded him with a cold look. He was a small, weak little man, by his own admission as poor a warrior as she would expect him to be. If he could not find the gaps in somebody’s armour with a sword, he could practice doing the same with words. Instead of stabbing people, he could get under their skin. Being a Lannister, he was far less likely to be killed for it, and he could pay them or manipulate them change their alliances. Was that really any less powerful? The dead could cause her no problems, but they themselves gained her little. The Imp could get true gain out of his enemies, instead of just taking whatever they had on them and leaving the rest of the gain for the crows.

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere._

Tywin Lannister was the most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, but she had not heard anything about his direct strength in combat. If somebody placed him against Gregor, Tywin would be dead in moments. But it didn’t happen, because somehow Tywin _controlled_ her father.

_But now the rains weep o’er his hall, with no one there to hear._

“You were in the Riverlands, but even then you had _months_ ,” the Imp continued. “Then you disobey your father and you flee. You come to King’s Landing for your uncle, who hates your father enough that my father usually keeps them in different _kingdoms_ for a reason, at what you feel is your own personal risk.”

_Yes now the rain weep o’er his hall, and not a soul to hear._

“Why now?” she asked him. If she had meant to kill Gregor, and just Gregor, it would have been best to remain close to him. No need to tell the Imp that.

“He did something you think as unforgiveable,” the Imp said. Gregor had not got any worse than he had been since the beginning. He fucked peasants like he fucked serving wenches, and killed both. He had the tortured for information they never had and things he did not care about. The only difference was with peasants he did not even have to try and pretend it was an accident, and he did it more frequently because he could. It was just what he did.

Alyssa nodded anyway. _Mercy._ “It was unforgiveable.” _It’s your fault._ Everybody died, but still it was unforgiveable. The wine in the glass moved like small waves, and she realized that her hand was shaking. She swirled the wine instead and drank, not even sure whether she was drinking to a truth or a lie. Perhaps it was the wine that caused the sick feeling she now had in her stomach, or the fact that she was not used to such rich food. But there was no use thinking about that.

 

“You don’t strike me as someone who forgives,” Bronn said.

“I don’t,” Alyssa said, and Bronn looked thoughtful. He had already taken one of the gold dragons as payment. She’d said that she ought to get at least a hundred silvers change, and he had given her ten total. It was not like she had properly tried to kill him. She had driven him backwards relentlessly, learning the ways he fought and dodged and blocked. For that time she’d had no concerns, it was only her and him trying to gain the upper hand, the clash of metal against metal and fury driving her on.

She had not allowed herself to get as exhausted as she had last time. The stitches seemed to have torn, or at the very least the wound had reopened, as she could feel the blood dripping down her side. It throbbed painfully, but there was no obvious stain so nobody else would see.

“Tyrion is loyal to those who are loyal to him, and he pays well,” he said and she gave him no reaction. Bronn trusted the Imp to pay him, and was loyal to him for as long as he paid him the most. The Imp was a smart man, and she saw no reason why he wanted to harm her in particular, but if the time came where it was more useful to let her die then he would do it. He was nothing to her, and she was nothing to him. “He is no more responsible for what is happening in the Riverlands than you are for what your father does.”

“Only if I set my father on somebody,” Alyssa stated. A man so smart could not be so stupid to be caught. Not by somebody stupid enough to try to capture Tywin Lannister’s son. But she could forget that, she was sure, if she tried hard enough. It was a pointless argument.

“He is not responsible for what is happening in the Riverlands,” Bronn repeated. “I was there when Catelyn Stark took him prisoner. Tyrion just wanted a room for the night, and Lady Catelyn called on everybody to convince them to capture him. He did not try to kill Brandon Stark either, if you are wondering. A man like Tyrion is too smart to arm an assassin with his own distinctive blade. Only a complete fool would, really.”

The Imp was still weak, she supposed. If somebody was stupid enough to capture or kill a Lannister, and if it had truly happened like Bronn said, being smart would do nothing and the Imp was too weak just to kill them with his sword. Being smart apparently got him a bodyguard and recruiter though.

“Believe me, don’t believe me. I am not honourable, but I am honest,” Bronn said, exasperated at her lack of reaction. “If not nobody would trust me to kill for them, then I would have no coin.”

“You will report back to…” _The Imp,_ she almost said, except that name was an insult and one did not insult those with more power than them. Not out loud. One ran the risk of opening their mouths and cutting off their own head with several words. “… Lord Tyrion.”

“He pays me,” Bronn said with a shrug.

“If I tell you a secret…” Alyssa said, not sure how to phrase this. She was being so fucking stupid. “Get the price as high as you can. Tell me. Pay me half.” Might as well get something out of it.

“Half is a lot,” Bronn said. “I don’t give away coin.”

“Argue the price up very high,” Alyssa said. “Half is more than nothing.”

“A quarter,” Bronn said. She sighed. Alright, apparently she was this much of a fucking fool. It was dangerous, the way rumours could spread, but if nothing else she would have coin to run with.

“A quarter,” she agreed, then she added coldly: “But you tell me.” No further threats, but a glare that conveyed what she would do if he did not.

She clenched her fist tightly, cursing herself and her own stupidity. But at least she had something. If Gregor was not there, she could still flee back to Clegane Keep for a little while. What she truly needed was a plan. How right was the Imp? He was smart, but smart people lied and manipulated.

As she moved her belongings up to her room, she returned to the stable where she had left Arrow and paid the stable master several of the silver stags Bronn had given her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, seeing as she is hardly staying hidden at all, Sandor will figure out who she is very quickly. One just can't keep secrets like that in the Red Keep.
> 
> (Yeah, this chapter got sort of longer than expected as well. Basically, next chapter, but for real this time!)
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	8. Clegane Family Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa and Sandor meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is mainly Alyssa and Sandor, but there is a little bit of Alyssa's relationship with Gregor in here as well. As you have already guessed, it is not at all a healthy relationship, so warning for that.

Life in the Red Keep was very nice, and nicer still by comparison. She’d be a fool not to enjoy it some, but she refused to let her guard down. There was plentiful food, so she ate too much for when she would not have enough. There were exotic foods she’d never had before, such as sweet fruits from the Summer Isles. She made sure to keep her face impassive, but those she ate slowly, savouring the taste. The door to her room could be barred, the bed had no fleas and she could stretch out fully, and while there were places she was not allowed to go she was hardly confined either. When she woke in the middle of the night, she could go to a training area until she exhausted herself enough to get back to sleep.

Inside the walls, it was easy to forget or push out of her mind what was going on outside, easy to just focus on the luxury. She was as out of place here as the Imp’s savages were, and she was definitely more savage than high lady. The Imp seen that too, and made sure that she definitely knew to refer to the king and the queen as ‘your Grace’.

“If you to look like you _don’t_ want to kill them, that would also help,” the Imp had added. Alyssa had simply averted her gaze, upwards rather than downwards for him, then nodded, not thinking that the queen would care about her at all.

“I know how to treat a king,” Alyssa had said, glaring at the point above his head. At the very least she knew more than the basics the Imp apparently assumed she did not. Gregor was king in his own keep, and a king could do as he pleased.

“Do you?” the Imp had asked. “Tell me then, how would you deal with my nephew?”

“He is the king,” Alyssa had stated, meeting the Imp’s gaze again. There were _four_ kings, but calling him _the_ king meant accepting him as the true one, even though he was a bastard. An answer to his question that did not cut off her own head for treason, but she had not called him a good king or said anything nice at all.

“He agrees with you there,” the Imp had said. “Half the realm doesn’t, but he is certain.” But then he had gone serious and looked at her and asked her how far she would go on King Waters’... _Joffrey’s…_ orders. She had not said a word and just stared back, before eventually just repeating that he was king. _Everything._ Of course she would, if disobedience meant death.

The Imp was a smart man, and Alyssa felt like he was trying to figure something out about her. She had given him his three guesses, but that was not enough for him. If there was a benefit to sell her out, he would do that without a second thought.

For the time being, he had decided that she would make a good enough guard. She was to keep her mouth closed and eyes open, as in full armour and with her visor down she made for an imposing figure. Standing near the Imp made her seem taller by comparison, and especially after polishing her armour she passed for a knight far better than any of his savages. She was a shadow to him, and was often left guarding the doors like the two unimpressive Kingsguard knights had done. Every route he took her on she memorized, running it through her mind as she watched everybody. She watched the squires as they rushed to obey orders, she watched the high lords and high ladies, she watched the knights and she watched the Kingsguard. Whenever he was near enough to her to be in her line of sight, she watched the Hound in particular.

He was an easy man to spot, near seven foot tall with burn scars covering half his face. Definitely stronger than her, as he was both taller than she was and far broader. He was Kingsguard and had the cloak for it, but he did not wear the same shiny armour as the rest, instead proper used armour that was more practical than decorative. She studied the armour, deciding that it was not quite as thick as Gregor’s, and there were gaps she could take advantage of. A greatsword was strapped across his back, and he had a longsword for quicker draw. He would have a far larger range than her if she gave him time to prepare. When he moved, his armour did not slow him.

 _His death will gain me nothing._ The Imp had told her something of the sort, but what the fuck did that leave her with? Her own death, as he would likely kill her. She was here, but she had no plan. No anything anymore, as she had never been in _less_ of a position to kill Gregor and the only safe thing for her to do now was to kill him. The gods loved their hilarity. The more she trained, the stronger she got, the more skilled a fighter and better a killer, every year she’d had less of a chance. Because every year he gave her more, but every year he took more from her. She had lost whatever kinship she had with the servants years ago, to them she was her father’s daughter and a traitor besides. The only reason they would prefer her over him was because she was the lesser of the evils, a traitorous bastard but not one who would harm them. Gregor _did_ care for her, as much as he was capable of caring for a person.

At seven or eight, she had been fascinated by Gregor’s strength but all he truly was to her was the monster who had killed her mother, the reason she had to hide, and the reason her true family were hurting. He was like a dragon, and dragons were extremely hard to kill. They could cleave a man clean in half with their claws, or burn villages to ground with a single breath, with scales so thick that swords thrust by grown men could barely pierce them. Unstoppable, near uncontrollable, but somehow loyal to their master. In her childish mind, the answer had been so easy. She wondered if the dragonslayers of old had come to same conclusion, but it would not make the stories or the songs: simply poison its food. If Lorena had let her, if she had found a poison, she probably would have succeeded. More likely to then than later.

The hatred, rather than true nothingness, had only returned in the Riverlands, and at that point she was in no true position to harm him. Killing a man in his own home when he trusted her was far easier than killing the same man in extremely heavy armour when he had his guard up. Now, fleeing like a craven, she would not even have the trust anymore. Just because she was too weak to endure, because she was a fucking fool.

The Hound hated Gregor, but he’d had _years_ to kill him. She glared at him, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. He was nothing to her; she had never met him. He had been too much of a craven to return to Clegane Keep. He had…

“Hill,” the Imp said, calling her attention back. He could hardly use her first name without revealing she was a woman, so going by surname was simply easier. She glanced back up at the Hound once more and followed the Imp, clenching and unclenching her left fist repeatedly while still holding the hilt of her sword tightly with her right. When they were somewhere the Imp deemed to be empty, he glared at her properly with his mismatched eyes. “ _No,_ Alyssa.”

 _Lannister, Lannister, Lannister. Lannister._ She gripped her shield then, folding her right arm above her left, fighting the desire to punch something. If somebody that strong had a chance of wanting her dead, she had to kill him. _Survive._ Yield anything, if it meant her survival. The Imp would give her more gold dragons, surely. She just had to survive.

The Hound would find out anyway. Cornering him with Bronn would not help; it would cause him to attack her and she was not sure both she and Bronn together would be able to beat the Hound. She and Bronn together would not beat Gregor. The Hound was the king’s dog, so the king’s uncle would be hesitant to see him dead. Even if he had a few crossbow bolts in him, it would not stop him killing her as he would be angry enough to barely feel it.

“M’lord,” she just grunted as an apology. She considered walking up to the Hound and telling him who she was, but that would be acting like she had a level of power she could not back up. The Hound had been too much of a craven to return to Clegane Keep. Not for a visit, not for any of the weddings. _He fears Gregor._ A scared dog backed into a corner was dangerous, and it was a dangerous name to use, but she could still hide behind Gregor.

She had to yield. If they both were to live together, she had to yield to him, but he could not think her weak. He had to come to her, instead of being the one on defensive. She would withstand, then she would yield, but most importantly she would survive. After that, a plan would be easier.

 

The Hound came to her late the following day, cornering her in a courtyard on her way to the training area. She flicked her visor up, using the increase in peripheral vision to quickly glance around her. There was a squire scampering quickly down one of the corridors, and he would be neither a threat nor a help. There was nobody that placing her back against the wall would defend her from, doing so would just trap her.

With the greatsword, his range was far greater than hers, so she had to position herself near enough to him that using it or even a longsword was just inconvenience. She approached him, her heart pounding hard, and she tilted her head upwards slightly to meet his gaze. There was fury in his eyes, and she raised her right hand to show that she was holding no weapon before folding it behind her shield. Quickly she loosened the straps, so she would be able to get her left hand free more easily, bracing herself for both a fight and for impact.

The Hound laughed, a harsh sound. He was very visibly taking her in, so she did the same. His scars were worse up close. The story either his father or Maester Tomas had come up with was _fucking ridiculous,_ and she had thought the excuse why Gregor’s third-wife-to-be did not make it to the wedding was ridiculous. On his jaw there was some bone showing, and there were some craters and cracks on his skin that were oozing. More than twenty years and it still had not healed properly. She was not sure how much sensation he had in that side of his face, but if it was oozing it was likely painful. She wondered if she punched him, whether that side would be more painful than the other one. The other side of his face resembled Gregor, enough to mark them as brothers.

“Gregor trained _you_?” the Hound sneered.

“Not personally,” Alyssa said, allowing herself a snort then at the mere thought of Gregor having the patience to train somebody. The Hound took a step forwards, leaving her with no place to go but backwards as there was not enough space between them. She took a second step, putting herself onto his scarred side and her shield between her and his sword.

“He gave up on sons,” the Hound said, his lips twitching at the thought. “A bastard girl was the best he could get.”

There was too much fury and spite in his tone for him demeaning her to be a relief. He was not dismissing her as a threat. He drove her back another step and blocked off her attempt to circle around him, moving forwards quickly and shoving her each time when she moved in a different direction instead of being herded straight back. She tried to stop the fear from showing on her face. _He hasn’t hurt me yet._ Was he toying with her?

“And now you are here. Were you not getting enough coin from peasants? Wanted some of the Imp’s gold instead?” the Hound said. She knew she was nearing the wall. She would have glanced behind her to check, but she was afraid to tear her gaze from the Hound’s. She took several more steps back without resistance, then one to the side, before moving forwards instead of back. The front of her shield blocked him from redirecting her. The quarter turn gave her more space, though not as much as half a turn would have done. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the hidden knife.

“I fled Gregor,” Alyssa ground out slowly, tearing her gaze from his eyes and staring at his scars instead when she spoke. She hated him, any fury she had felt for the Imp paling in comparison. When she looked back into his eyes again, she was pleased to see that he looked slightly uneasy. Short-lived idiotic pleasure, but pleasure nevertheless.

He moved quicker than he had done before, and his hand shot out. The impact she was expecting did not come, but his gripped her face, his fingers and thumb digging into her cheeks with force she knew would bruise. Instinctively she did not fight it, and realized anew that he had not drawn a blade or struck her.

“You are not a good person for _fleeing_ Gregor,” the Hound spat at her. “He trained you. He bought you your armour, and gave you your sword. You killed and burned your way through the Riverlands, and all you say in your defence is that you _fled Gregor._ ”

“Mercy,” Alyssa growled, staring him down in such a way he would have absolutely no chance of thinking that she was demanding mercy for herself. It was hard to speak with the way he was holding her, but he had not hit her. He had not hurt her.

The Hound laughed again, an even colder sound than the first time. “You are not merciful. I kill people, but I do not call it mercy. Gregor would never have trained you if he saw any goodness in you.”

“Foolish,” Alyssa spat. She really ought not to mock the words of people stronger than her, but the words came from her lips anyway. The Hound released his grip slightly, forcing her back a few more steps which she allowed without resistance. He finally managed to back her into a wall. “No goodness, no loyalty. Teach me to fight, to be self-serving, and to see weakness. No loyalty.” She laughed, and then there was a stinging sensation and she tasted blood in her mouth. The pain came then, and she realized he had finally struck her. But not hard. Her teeth were still in place, and her nose was not broken. The back of her head stung as the force of the impact had hit her head against the wall. “Except to myself. You’ve got coin, and you hate Gregor.”

He backhanded her again, higher up this time. Her cheekbone stung horribly, and blood streamed from her nose. She started coughing as she breathed some blood in, then spat it out over the ground. The Hound’s expression was pure fury, and she focussed on the pain to stop herself from fighting back. Her right hand was tightly gripping the hilt of the concealed knife, and she wanted to stick the blade through his eye. Rake it down his face, and see whether the burned and scarred flesh bled the same as normal flesh did. Show Gregor that there was no way she would side with his brother over him; it would amuse him so she would get no punishment. Except she would be too dead by that point. _Yield,_ she mentally screamed at herself. She did, averting her gaze from his eyes and bowing her head.

“Aye, I hate Gregor,” the Hound said, forcing her face upwards again. “What are you going to do, girl? Tell me Gregor’s weaknesses, for coin? Set him on me and ask for payment?”

“Do you know how Gregor’s first wife died?” Alyssa asked coldly. She was done listening to him. Fuck yielding, if he did not let her. _Do not attack him._

“She did not give him an heir quickly enough,” the Hound said. “So he smashed her skull in.”

“A serving girl gave him a child and she did not,” Alyssa corrected. She hated the Hound, truly hated him. “So he killed them _both._ By the time he was done, they could not tell who was who. I survived. My mother’s sister taught me how, and I don’t even know who killed her. Gregor, or one of his men.” Alyssa sucked on her bloody lip, then spat the blood into his face. The Hound did not wipe the blood away, tightening his grip instead of partially releasing it to do so. “They were both there when you were. Mairie, Lorena. Do you remember them?”

The Hound didn’t. He didn’t even try.

“Do you remember the women you left to die?” she repeated in the same cold tone.

“What was I meant to do? Rescue your mother and aunt and every other servant? Take them all with me? Then I suppose we would all have lived and played happy families,” the Hound mocked, though he had the good sense to release her face and use both his hands to restrain her against the wall. His face was close to hers, and she fought the urge to clamp her teeth around his nose and _yank_. She needed to keep her teeth.

“What was I meant to do? Die?” Alyssa snarled in the same mocking tone, not letting him say any more. Her entire body was shaking with anger, and she used it to glare him down. “I _live._ ” She could do it. Kick the shield forwards, give herself some space, twist downwards and drive the blade through his hamstring. Grab another knife as he falls to his knees, likely even his, and thrust it through an eye or through his throat from below. _No. Stupid._

She could not read the Hound’s expression anymore, but some of the anger had left his eyes and he was silent. She did not want to kill him as badly when he wasn’t speaking. She took several deep breaths, trying to force herself to calm, trying to remind herself why killing the Hound was a bad idea. He would overpower her and kill her.

Slowly she released her grip of the knife, and after a few moments the Hound released her. He took one more look at her, before he stormed away. Alyssa straightened, glaring after him as she wiped at the blood on her face, then flicking her visor down so that nobody else would see her weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... they managed not to kill each other. It was never going to be a pleasant first conversation between the two of them.
> 
> Just spin that conversation around so you see it from Sandor's perspective. He knows Gregor, and he knows what kind of person somebody has to be to not only live with Gregor for years but sort of thrive (more than he did, anyway). Alyssa does not come across as at all a good person when you don't get her perspective, and even then she's hardly a good person. She does not really think of Sandor as a person yet, but just as an enemy. :(
> 
> Who do you think is the more sympathetic character in that conversation? And how do you think their relationship is going to go after this point? Tell me what you think.
> 
> Exam season is starting now, so it will be longer between updates. :(


	9. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor drinks, Alyssa seethes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was going to be Sansa in this chapter, then I put Sandor point of view at the beginning of it. Then it seemed like a good place to cut the chapter off. Forgive me? *innocent blinking*

Several hours later, Sandor Clegane found himself in a tavern he had no real memory of choosing to go to, and was in the middle of drinking himself into a stupor. He had a corner table to himself, and more wine was placed on the table in front of him the moment his flagon was empty. First that had been done by a redheaded whore, as the tavern owner seemed to have heard he preferred redheads. Her only similarities to the little bird were her fear of him and her inability to look him straight in the face. Even the hair colour was wrong, too dark and obviously dyed, and when he had cursed at her and stood, she had scampered away and then it was another whore taking her place. That whore did not offer to try to pleasure him, or even speak. She just wordlessly refilled his flagon then ran away.

He had not paid a copper for any of it. The tavern owner was afraid to approach him, and the entire tavern had gone almost silent since he had arrived. They were all cravens, the lot of them. Even so drunk he could barely stand, they all feared him.

Gregor’s daughter had feared him, at first, but that fear had quickly made way for anger. He had been as bad as the little bird with her songs and fancy stories if he had ever believed there could have been goodness in her. He had known it, the Spider had hinted at what she had done, but there had been a part of him that had foolishly hoped otherwise. Hoped _what_ exactly he was not certain.

 _‘Nobody is loyal for the right price. They are loyal to her above him, but that is all she can truly hope for,’_ the Spider had said. _‘The Red Keep has been good to her. She has killed nobody since arriving.’_

 _‘So the Imp did find a woman to put in armour?’_ Sandor had snorted. Boros was actually right about something. The Imp’s new shadow was silent and faceless, armour and shield without sigil or ornamentation, meant mainly to be imposing. Meryn and Boros had discussed it at length, derisive and mocking. Meryn just thought the Imp’s shadow was a bastard knight of truly low birth, too poor even to afford his own horse. Why else would a man lower himself to working for a dwarf among savages? Boros insisted she was a woman, a grotesque whore who had fucked the Imp’s sellsword and probably the Imp himself, allowed to play knight only for as long as she managed to sort of pleasure them. It had to be near the stupidest thing Sandor had heard, made funny that despite all of his mockery, derision and bragging that a woman was worthless in a fight and good for nothing except birthing babes, Boros dared not approach her.

 _‘She was already in armour when he found her,’_ Varys had said, his eyes crinkling as if he was laughing. _‘My little birds whisper stories into my ear._ Brutal _killings. It makes me shudder to think of it.’_

 _Everything_ made Varys shudder. The eunuch had a tendency to be so overdramatic that it rivalled Cersei. Sandor had started walking away, and the Spider had tittered. _‘I would have thought you would be interested about your niece.’_ And Sandor had gone cold.

 _She has Gregor’s look to her,_ Sandor thought, drinking again and place his empty flagon in front of him for the whore to refill. If his niece wished to kill him, she would have an easy time of it now. He had looked at her closely, but really it was the eyes, especially at the end. The way she looked at him was so close to the way Gregor looked at him that Sandor had felt uneasy and almost afraid. She’d taken him in at the start, but after she had just met his gaze and glared him down. Except when she’d said Gregor’s name. Then her cold and furious gaze had drifted to his scars, and her look had been a threat. He just could not figure out whether she meant to do something herself or try to set Gregor on him. Probably the latter, then make him pay her in gold for it. She had tried her best, genuinely wanting to set Gregor on him one breath then offering to help him kill him the next. _Self-serving. No loyalty._ Aye, she had the right of it, though even her truths were to try to manipulate him. Not a very good manipulator, as there was nothing subtle about the way she did it.

He should not have hit her. Gregor would consider her his, so he should not have hit her. She did not like Gregor though, of that he had no doubt. There was too much hatred there at the end for that, no matter how much she’d tried to direct it at him rather than Gregor. Gregor’s first wife had died just after the end of Robert’s Rebellion, and the girl could have been no more than a babe. She was clinging to the idea of an imaginary mother who had kept her safe, and an aunt who had done the same but in a way she could actually remember. They were the ones she seemed to consider family, not Gregor, and Sandor drunkenly found himself jealous for the family she’d had. Might be he had been wrong. Perhaps, once, there had been goodness in her. It would just have been beaten and trained out of her until there was nothing left. If anybody had betrayed the servants, her family, it would have been her.

Sandor almost laughed. The girl could not be Gregor, as if she lost her temper at him even once he would have killed her. However furious she had been at him, and whatever her eyes had said, she had never even tried to fight back. As much as she’d wanted to. But she did live, and there was no goodness there. She was probably thinking about setting him on fire, if the way she was looking at his face was anything to go by.

Gregor had a daughter to mould into his image, and he had mostly succeeded. What he had created was a violent opportunistic bitch who subconsciously resented him, thought up ways to kill him, and only remained with him because she got benefit from it. By the look of it, by what he had given her, he did care for her. That was almost too good. Sandor had half the mind to pay her off to help him kill Gregor, just to have the satisfaction of seeing the betrayal on Gregor’s face.

Fuck, the bitch was a better manipulator than he’d thought.

 

Alyssa destroyed several practice dummies. She slashed at the first with her sword, cutting them into so many pieces that at the end she was really just thrusting her sword at the ground. The second, she did not even know. It had started out as knife slashes, but then she was pounding at it with her fists and somehow it ended up as destroyed as the first. It did nothing.

She tried to focus on the nothingness, but it did not come. She followed the route she remembered to the sept, and lit a fucking candle for each of the Seven, even the Maiden and the Mother and she did not know what they were for. Could non-maidens even pray to the Maiden? Perhaps virtuous highborn wives who had highborn husbands and their own little girls to pray for.

 _Mercy,_ she remembered. That was what the Mother was meant to be for. Mercy and compassion and all that, except the gods had no mercy and no compassion. They just enjoyed their jokes.

She stood and walked out without having said a single word. She hated him. There was no way to have truly hated the Hound before she had met him, but now that she had she knew she hated him. He deserved to be killed, and _that_ was mercy. As merciful as the Mother, at any rate.

 _It went as well as it could have,_ Alyssa told herself. She had just not yielded fast enough or yielded right. He’d had her against the wall, so he could have killed her far more easily than she could have killed him. He would not have had to think about it as much as she had, simply because there was little effort in killing an opponent when you had them that trapped. She was alive, and uninjured enough that it truly made no matter. The blood clogging her nose stopped her from breathing out of it as easily, but she breathe through her mouth. It was not like she had an eye, or both, swollen shut, as that would be an inconvenience. _It went as well as it could have._

Except that was a fucking lie and she knew it. She could have an ally instead of an enemy, even if it was enemy who had not killed her just yet. The Hound was not going to help her. He’d had _decades_ to kill Gregor, but still he let him live. The Hound certainly had coin for a Faceless Man if he truly did not think he could win in a fight. The chances of him naming her castellan of Clegane Keep if he inherited it were basically non-existent.

 _I cannot kill the Hound,_ Alyssa reminded herself. He was not Gregor. Gregor would have hurt her worse. She did not even know why she was so angry. Hating the Hound was dangerous, so she could not hate him. There was not a single fucking person in this Keep she could hate and kill. They were all highborn this and highborn that, or belonged to somebody who was. Or if she did, she had to be far too careful not to get caught. Nobody cared about the peasants in the city, but they had done nothing to her. Their deaths would gain her nothing. _Might’s well, there’s no goodness in me._ Alyssa almost punched the wall. _No._ Why the fuck was she listening to _the Hound?_ Why the fuck was she listening to a man who answered to ‘dog’? Dogs were stupidly loyal things, all snarls and viciousness, but they were worthless for anything else. Where was his sense of… _anything?_ Kill Gregor, take his castle. Creating children was not all that much effort for a man, and he was close enough to the king and surely rich enough that somebody would throw wives in his direction. Being a knight would have increased his station, yet the position he was in he would have had to work hard to _refuse_ a knighthood.

A stupid man. He was _nothing,_ a _dog_. Not even a man, and she stopped herself thinking of the ways she could stop him being a man for true. Death would be a mercy for him, and she hated him enough not to give him mercy.

 _... I did not come for the Imp’s coin, I came for yours._ She had fled, because she had _hated._ She had hated Gregor and every single one of his men, fantasizing the ways they would die. It had become the _only_ thing that drove her onwards, the need to _kill them all._ She’d looked at them and imagined flaying the skin from their flesh, gelding them and cutting them into little pieces and then setting them on fire to see if they could still scream. She’d fled, because that was all she could think about, and if she had stayed she would have tried to kill them all. Then Gregor would have killed her. Above all, she would _survive._

Alyssa returned to her room, nowhere near calm but calmer than she had been. She barred the door, and when she looked in the mirror, she realized looked like she had tried to lap up blood from a dish like a cat would lap up milk. Wiping at her mouth with a gauntleted hand had just smeared it over her cheeks where it had dried. That was almost a fearsome sight to behold, even if it was her own blood and not that of slain enemies or whatever the rumours might have been had she kept her visor up and challenged others to a fight.

She pushed the mirror away, ignoring it as she removed her armour. She clenched her left fist tightly, undoing the brace and yanking the sleeve up to the elbow. The scar itself was maybe six inches long, a deep ridge running from about an inch beneath her elbow down the back of her forearm that had not faded much even two years after the injury. The bone had shattered, and fragments had broken the skin and damaged the internal tissues. Impact was now not too painful, especially with the brace on. Clenching her fist gave enough pain to usually focus her. Alyssa dug her fingers into the ridge, gripping it tightly with her right hand, squeezing, probing and _twisting._ The agony was horrible, enough to focus her as it would take incredible effort to think about or focus on _anything_ else. She bit at her bloody lip to stifle the scream, then somehow she managed to remember that it was she herself who was causing this pain and her right hand loosened its grip almost without her consent. Sweat was streaming down her face and her breathing was ragged. Pain still throbbed deeply in her arm, although her fist was no longer clenched, and she twitched her fingers to make doubly sure that she still could. Alyssa sat on the end of her bed as if in a daze, her mind completely blank. Her face ached, her side ached, her forearm hurt worse than both of those injuries combined.

 _That_ had worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cleganes. :( 
> 
> Neither are at all happy with how the last chapter went, and neither have particularly healthy coping mechanisms. 
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	10. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa assesses Joffrey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything you recognize directly from the TV series is obviously not mine in any form or way. Game of Thrones, ASOIAF etc. is not mine in any form or way either. 
> 
> Basically, you already know this: fanfiction, disclaimer.

Nothing was a secret in a place like the Red Keep. Alyssa broke her fast with Bronn and the Imp, and they both already knew about her confrontation with the Hound. The Imp had asked her whether she was alright, to which she had responded with a steely glare, then a grunt of ‘m’lord’ because she ought to be respectful to the person paying her.

“It’s ‘ _my lord’,_ ” the Imp said with a sigh, seeming to figure out he was getting nowhere with her.

“ _My_ lord,” Alyssa said emotionlessly, enunciating carefully and looking straight ahead. That somehow took about twice as long to say, perhaps because there were twice as many syllables. He smiled, as if her words were a victory to him.

“You do look horrible,” Bronn said. _I could make you look worse._

“I have a mirror,” Alyssa said. The visor would cover everything up, so it did not truly matter. Half of it was the lack of sleep, she was sure, as the rings under her eyes were themselves almost as dark as bruises. Sleep had come, but it had not been a good sleep, and she had spent most of the night staring up at the ceiling not thinking of anything at all.

Bronn sighed. “If it makes you feel better, the Hound drank himself into a stupor in a dingy tavern.”

“He is a stupid man,” Alyssa stated.

“I seem to notice a lot of men drink,” the Imp said, and of course he had a wine glass to emphasize his point. The man could hold his drink. He drank with every meal, and more between meals, and she had not had to carry a passed out dwarf back to his room yet. He spoke too much. Alyssa was sure the Imp could hold a conversation with a tongue-less man, but for such a smart man he voiced a lot of thoughts that should not be voiced. She found herself more and more surprised that he had not got himself killed, or executed for treason, or had his face smashed in. _Tywin Lannister’s son._ But it would have only have taken one man. _Did you run your mouth at Catelyn Tu…?_ She stopped that thought there, although she could take a guess at the answer. Catelyn Tully had already decided to blame him, so it would have made no difference if he had not said a word.

“Truly drunk men are easy to kill,” Alyssa said instead.

“I don’t think my overall fighting ability is at all impeded by me not being completely sober. I can barely lift a sword when sober, and barely lift a sword when drunk. It’s not like I have far to fall if I trip over my own feet, and if I’m lucky I might trip others up too,” the Imp said. Bronn laughed, and Alyssa raised her eyebrows. “Careful now, Alyssa, people may start to think you care whether I live or die.”

“I’m your guard. If you die, you cannot pay me,” Alyssa said. That comment had surely been a test.

“Now, that alone has been keeping highborns alive for centuries,” the Imp said. “We have coin, so we give some of our coin to others to prevent others still from killing us because we have said coin.”

“Only reason to have highborns, really,” Bronn said.

“We have other uses!” the Imp exclaimed. _They are at it again,_ Alyssa thought, stuffing more food into her mouth and using them as a distraction. It surprised her that it was an almost fond thought.

“Like what?” Bronn said.

“Drinking… and whoring. Half the taverns and brothels will go out of business without our coin. I’ve done my part the best I can, but that will only last for so long,” the Imp said. Bronn looked like he would not mind helping out. “Then every now and then one of us knows what to do with power, and the kingdoms thrive.”

“Good thing you are here then,” Bronn said. Alyssa frowned. _You are not doing very well._ It was a stupid and childish thought, but the only part of the kingdom she knew for sure was thriving was within the walls of the Red Keep. The rest of it was burning, starving or simply dying. Not one of the kings cared about their people, or they would not have declared themselves kings in a land where another king meant more war. _It’s not the Imp’s fault. Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Robb Stark._ If they were not fighting a war, it would truly be Tywin Lannister on the throne, hidden behind a bastard puppet king.

 

She did not approach the Hound that day. Only a complete fool with a death wish approached a Clegane with a hangover. Gregor had an even shorter temper than usual when drunk, but hungover Gregor was even worse, and any of his men who did not give him a wide enough berth tended to end up dead. _They avoided me too…_ but there was no use thinking of that. Alyssa clenched her fist tightly, and it hurt slightly more than it usually did. That helped.

The Hound did not approach her either. She told herself that it was for the best that he did not, biting at her lip until it bled again to remind herself. He was a stupid man. He was far stronger than her, but it made little matter when he was drunk _._ If she had followed him, waited for him to drink himself into a stupor and tied him up, then he would have been hers. He had provoked her and was convinced that there was no goodness in her, yet made it so easy for her to do whatever she pleased. _A stupid, stupid man._ She forced it out of her mind, focussing first on her duties then on her training.

The following day, the Imp came out of a meeting with Bronn by his side. He told her that Robb Stark had won a battle, and that Stafford Lannister had been killed. She had not truly cared, occupying herself by figuring out which one he was as there were a lot of Lannisters. Not one of the main branch. Cousin? The Imp’s or Lord Tywin’s? She could not recall if she had ever known, and she did not know what he looked like or how old he was so there would be no clue there. Did it matter, given the last name was Lannister?

Then he told her that Stafford Lannister had been in Oxcross, and she had frozen in place and turned to look at him so quickly that her armour creaked loudly. Unlike so many places she’d heard mentioned, she knew where that was. _They are going for Lannisport,_ Alyssa told herself. Oxcross was three days ride from Lannisport… and also three days ride from Clegane Keep. They would not bother with the lands of a landed knight, surely. They would not take her home from her.

Alyssa clenched her fist tightly, taking several breaths to try to keep calm. She did not know how to feel, and there was nothing she could do. _Fuck, I can’t even go home._ When she was a young girl, she had climbed all the way up the main tower in Clegane Keep because she could see for miles and miles around, helped by the fact that Clegane Keep was already on a hill. On a clear day, she could just about _see_ Lannisport in the distance, or at the very least she thought she could. She could see reflection of water, and she’d envisioned the fleet there. Some days, she could see smoke rise from multiple chimneys, and when the angle was right she could _maybe_ see the tower. It had been too many years, so she was not sure which exact parts had been simply imagined, but Lannisport was _close._ Less than a day’s ride away. Half a day’s ride, maybe, if there was only a small group. Whether they raided Clegane Keep or not, if the army went for Lannisport it would be too close. The Stark men would take her head if they caught her, as different Stark men had already tried. _Anybody who rides with Gregor Clegane. Fuck that. I may be alone, but I’d be going to his castle._ My _castle. My home._

She felt extremely trapped suddenly. There was nowhere she could safely flee to. Fear hit her like a punch to the gut, and her own breaths were loud in her ears. She hated her own weakness. _I’ll kill them._ Anybody who dared as much as to touch her home. She would kill them all, slowly, one by one, even if it meant putting the entire North to the torch. _It doesn’t matter,_ she told herself. Repeated the thought, over and over, as she was with the Imp and she could not lose her temper. She had to feel nothing. It was war, and she could hide out just about anywhere if she had to. Taking another deep breath, she walking quickly for a few paces to catch up with Bronn and the Imp.

“ _My lord,_ ” she ground out, enunciating carefully again, glaring him down and challenging him to try to get more out of her.

“The trick with courtesy is not to sound so murderous,” Bronn said.

“Fuck off,” Alyssa said.

“Good for you, that was less murderous,” Bronn said. She flicked her visor up momentarily and glared at him, and Bronn raised his hands in surrender. “I stand corrected.” She truly was not in a mood to deal with him, or anybody else. The Imp had a destination in mind, walking quickly for him, and she understood where she was going just before she reached the location. He had told her as an aside, already on the move, mostly just so that she knew what was going on. It was that if the Imp had heard the news, King Waters had too.

What they found was the most beautiful and highborn-looking girl Alyssa had ever seen, stripped and bruised in front of half the court. _The future queen,_ except that was not the truly relevant part. _Robb Stark’s sister._ Although Alyssa recognized the look of suffering on her face and her body bore marks of recent beatings, the future queen had never gone hungry or worked a day in her life. Most every gaze was on her, and the future queen was defenceless but for the kingsguard who were beating her. _Half of Westeros would kill to be in her place,_ Alyssa thought, though the girl was too weak to see it.

“What is the meaning of this?! What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?!” he demanded, and it was King Waters who Alyssa looked at then. He looked young, made younger still by his childishly angry pout. There was a crossbow in his hand, although now it was dipped at the ground, no longer properly loaded and forgotten. _Weak, whiny, little cunt._ That was Gregor’s description of him, all of those words meaningless when he was the one saying it. Except Gregor had not been comparing Joffrey to himself but to her. Maester Tomas had given her a look like she was the world’s biggest fool for not figuring it out straight way. _The closest he has to a son to the closest the Hound has to a son._ She stole a quick glance at the Hound, and he looked disgusted and dangerous, his eyes fixed in the direction of the future queen but not quite _at_ her, like he was giving her some stupid pretence of privacy. No, that was not right. He was staring ahead, a guard not distracted by beauty, perhaps because he knew he had no chance of hoping for it. A loyal obedient guard dog.

“The kind who serves his king, Imp!” Ser Meryn snarled. Bronn was quick to respond.

“Careful now, we don’t want to get blood all over your pretty white cloak,” Bronn said. Ser Meryn did not look at all comfortable, the prospect of fighting a sellsword making him visibly uneasy. It was not caution, but something almost akin to fear, the kind of fear that would suddenly become bravado the moment Bronn left that _of course_ he would have won had it come to a fight.

“Someone get the girl something to cover herself with,” the Imp said, and the Hound was the first to move. He tore his cloak from himself and wrapped it around the future queen’s shoulders, only glancing at her properly when she was covered. Another order followed. “She’s to be your queen! Have you no regard for her honour?!”

“I’m punishing her,” King Joffrey whined. _Weak. Whiny._ He was _little_. A child. _Cunt._

“For what crimes?! She did not fight her brother’s battle, you halfwit!” the Imp said, and Alyssa forced her movement to be slow when she looked at the Imp. Calling out a knight was one thing, calling out a king was another. Whatever else he was, King Waters was the king.

“You can’t talk to me like that! The king can do as he likes!” The king stormed back to his throne, sitting down and pouting like a young boy in the middle of a tantrum.

“The Mad King did as _he_ liked. Has your uncle Jaime ever told you what happened to him?” the Imp said. _He’s going to get executed for treason._

“No one threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard,” Ser Meryn said, reaching for his sword. Alyssa’s hand went to hers instinctively in response.

“I’m not threatening the king, ser, I’m educating my nephew. Bronn, Hill, the next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him. _That_ was a threat. See the difference?!” the Imp said. Ser Meryn’s fear increased tenfold. He looked like he was about to piss himself. _It’s also an order._ She found herself truly hoping that he spoke, but the craven did not say a word.

The Imp walked up to the future queen, offering her his hand. After hesitating for a moment, she took it slowly and got up. When she and Imp, still hand in hand, walked towards the exit to the throne room, Joffrey stood with an angry pouty expression and did nothing. Alyssa followed him, Bronn by her side.

“I apologize for my nephew’s behaviour,” she heard the Imp say to the future queen. “Tell me the truth: do you want an end to this engagement?”

“I am loyal to King Joffrey, my one true love,” the future queen said, emotionlessly. _Smart._ She dropped the Imp’s hand and walked ahead, adopting the poise of a true royal with the Hound’s cloak still wrapped around her shoulders. She was weak, too weak to see it, but they were making her strong. She had stood again, and now had her head held high. _No matter how much they beat you down, stand._

“ _Lady Stark…_ You may survive us yet,” the Imp said.

“The little king's backed up. Clogged from balls to brains,” Bronn said when they were definitely out of earshot. At least he had waited that long, but it was a thought that ought not be voiced. He did not even have the protection of being a Lannister.

“You think dipping his wick will cure what ails him?” the Imp asked.

“There's no cure for being a cunt,” Bronn said. “But the boy's at that age. And he's got nothing to do all day but pick wings off flies. Couldn't hurt to get some of the poison out.”

“You clean up the bodies,” Alyssa said. She recognized the look in his eyes, and she knew what else he had done. The boy was Gregor, if somebody took Gregor’s strength and put a crown on his head. _Gregor's a king in his own keep._ The boy was the Tickler, taking glee in dismemberment. The boy was Raff, and Marton, and Chiswyck. She knew dozens of men like Joffrey, but saying that out loud was treason.

“You think he’ll kill them?” the Imp asked her.

“A king can do as he pleases,” Alyssa said. “Have you ever seen Gregor do as he pleases?” Sansa Stark was as safe as she could be, considering. _The future queen._ Her brother held the Kingslayer. No whore would get the same protection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa's getting closer, isn't she? 
> 
> Tyrion: almost there. Meryn and Joffrey she got straight away or near straight away.
> 
> Not with Sandor though. At all. :( 
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	11. The Future Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion asks Alyssa how she would deal with Joffrey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: discussions of abuse.
> 
> Further warning for the first three paragraphs. Abuse, violence and the Mountain’s men in general being their own warning.
> 
> And Meryn Trant continues to be lucky. Yet unharmed, at any rate. :(

She bled. _You remember this?_ She gasped out breaths, one hand over ribs she knew were cracked at best. He was holding a whip. She stood. _Hands and knees._ She dropped to her hands and knees. _Stay._ She stayed. The whip tore into her back, and the force pushed her forwards. Her face hit the mud, and he kicked her in the side. Broken ribs now. _I told you to stay._ She forced herself back on her hands and knees, braced herself, one hand further forwards than the other to take the impact. She spat mud out of her mouth. Mud and blood. Blood trickled down her chin, tickled in her throat. Her breaths were ragged gasps. She stayed. All of her focus was staying in place, not crying out. Blood poured down her back, her muscles screaming and her back and shoulders burning. She was drenched in blood. At least that time she had not been tied down. She stood. Barely. But she stood.

He bled. She beat him to a bloody pulp. His nose broke, and his jaw. His teeth flew from his mouth, his eyes she gouged from their sockets. She beat him until his ribcage caved in, until his screams became whimpers, until her own fists bled and their blood mingled. Then she opened him up with her sword, cock to shoulder. It was his blood that drenched her then, and she smiled. She stood, head held high.

They bled. They screamed, caught, too slow, dragged away. Defenceless, caught. Beaten and broken, dead or almost, internal injuries and thighs bloody. Again and again and again, weak and defenceless and weak. She saw. Nothing to be done. The way it was. War. Woman and babes, burning and stabbing, axes and swords and _such fucking creativity._ What war was. Mercy. A quick death. Following. They bled. Nothing she could do to stop it. Not while surviving. _Survive_. Her sword bloody. Nothing to be done. They bled. A different _they._ Everything bled and everything burned and everything died. She stood, blood warm against her skin, sticky and red and…

Alyssa awoke suddenly, realising it was sweat she was drenched in and not blood. Her breaths were still coming out in gasps and her heart was pounding although all she had done was lie in a bed. King Waters was a weak whiny little cunt, but she was sure he could sleep through the fucking night without waking sweating like he’d spent the last three hours training instead of sleeping. Not that King Waters looked like he had _ever_ trained for three hours without stopping. She pushed herself up, cursing her own weakness.

 _Fucking Imp…_ But of course he could do more. He was a Lannister and Lannisters basically pissed money. He was Hand, a fucking prince, surely, as brother of the queen. Nobody had punished his treason. Alyssa forced herself to take several deep breaths, clenching her fist and focussing on the pain.  _Surely Meryn Trant’s spoken._ Unless he was so terrified and craven to remain mute for the rest of his life. That would not be a loss. Another deep breath, and she made a sound that was half way between a growl and a sigh. No matter what the Imp had _said_ , she ought to obey the order he had very obviously _meant._ Alyssa clenched her fist tightly. Ser Meryn was a fool, making an enemy of the future queen. He was hurting Sansa Stark and she would end up with more power than him, which was just foolish and dangerous, although perhaps Meryn was such a fool that he did not notice that the future queen was going to be queen in the future.

She dressed quickly and strapped her armour into place, forcing herself to focus on that task and nothing else. The training area was empty, so she dragged a training dummy out to the centre and drew her sword, picturing that the dummy had Meryn’s face.

Highborn girls were probably trained to faint at the sight of blood, wrinkle their noses at anything that was not _just_ perfect and to be maidenly and obedient and whatever fucking else. Such a girl was not really much good for anything except perhaps raising children, and as they were going to be sold off to the highest bidder anyway that did not matter much. It was a laughable notion that Sansa Stark would beat Meryn Trant to death, but the future queen would still be able to do as she pleased. _What_ she pleased would depend on how much that cunt decided to relish beating her. Get a son from Waters, and he would be the same, because then she would still remain queen through her son like the current Queen Regent. _The people starve while the Red Keep eats. King Waters kills them, and he has her hurt. They’ll have more kinship with her than with any of those other highborn cunts._ Unless of course they saw her as a traitor, but she had never been one of them. Many had seen, so Sansa Stark’s suffering at King Water’s hands could not be denied.

By the time Alyssa had calmed and exhausted herself enough to go back to sleep, her entire body aching with exertion, the sun was just beginning to rise. She dozed for maybe half an hour before walking to the Tower of the Hand and joining the Imp to break her fast.

‘What do you suggest, Alyssa?’ the Imp had asked the previous day, so similar yet far more serious than the first time he asked her how she would deal with Joffrey.

‘To obey the king,’ Alyssa had said bluntly. The Imp had sighed.

‘Think on it,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve got a pouch of gold dragons in it for you.’ Alyssa had looked at him, because she’d had only two obvious solutions. Obey King Joffrey, or kill him. But one answer apparently was not suitable, and the other was treason. That many gold dragons could help her run anywhere, but if she stayed she had everything she needed. Gregor was in Harrenhal obeying Lord Tywin, the last she’d heard.

‘Do I get a pouch of gold dragons?’ Bronn had piped up.

‘I’m paying you plenty,’ the Imp had said.

‘How much are you paying me?’ Bronn had asked. The Imp did not seem to know. ‘Then another few pouches can’t hurt.’

“Do you have a pouch of gold dragons?” Alyssa asked as she sat down by the Imp’s side like she was meant to be there. He had ordered her to sit with him once, and he had not stopped her since.

“You are asking that of a Lannister?” the Imp said, placing a pouch on the table. Alyssa opened it and counted the coins. Twenty gold dragons, far more than she’d ever had. Alyssa bit the inside of her lip to prevent her mouth from falling open, and kept hold of the pouch with one of her hands. For that much gold, she could do this.

“You cannot make King Joffrey better,” Alyssa said. Those words were not treason, as one could take them to mean Waters was as good as could be. “Sansa Stark can make a good queen.” _Just don’t let her become him in their eyes._

“We are trying to make sure he causes as little damage as possible,” the Imp said. "Despite his every attempt to make himself as many enemies as possible."

“Then let him beat Sansa Stark,” Alyssa said, and she realised that was the wrong thing to say the moment she spoke although the words were true enough.

“Lady Sansa has already suffered too much,” the Imp said. Alyssa opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “They beheaded her father in front of her, she is betrothed to the person who ordered the execution, she has been held prisoner, forced to denounce her entire family as traitors and is beaten for supposed crimes her brother committed.”

“She is _safe,_ ” Alyssa snarled, before she remembered who she was talking to. “They cannot hurt her bad, but they are making her strong. A queen should not be weak.”

“Stripping and beating a fourteen year old girl in front of half the court is _not_ the way to make her strong,” the Imp said, and he was angry. She almost laughed at him. An angry dwarf. She could just pick him up and… _he is a Lannister!_ She tried to calm herself, clenching her fist beneath the table.

“They all saw,” Alyssa said, although doing it in front of the men was a true danger. If Meryn was that terrified of Bronn alone, any sellsword could try to rape the future queen and Meryn would probably flee and say she ran off. “They all saw the bruises. It cannot be denied. The smallfolk _hate_ the king. You can try to stop them hating _her_.” Alyssa took another deep breath, tightening her grip around the pouch of coins. She was being too honest, she knew, but somehow she convinced herself to continue. “Half of Westeros would kill to be in her place. She is safe. She is not starving. They suffer more than her, without being queen at the end.”

“Alyssa, I am not going to allow Joffrey to beat Lady Sansa,” the Imp said in a tone allowed no argument, and she found herself giving him a small smile although she had absolutely no idea why. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Teach her,” Alyssa said. “Get her a guard.” Of the Kingsguard, Ser Preston, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were average fighters at the very best. Ser Mandon and Ser Arys seemed better fighters, but judging by the others it could be that she had just not been near enough to them to see their flaws. The Kingslayer was a hostage. The Hound had guarded a prince then king who reminded her of Gregor for as long as the boy had been alive, likely cleaning up the messes of his experimentations. He would be a worse than useless guard for anybody who King Waters wanted to harm. “The Kingsguard is for the king.”

There was a long silence and Alyssa picked up some food and ate. Somehow, the silence made her feel nervous, as the Imp always spoke. It had been stupid of her to tell him what she thought for true. She should have tried to figure out what he wanted to hear then told him that.

“They beat you,” the Imp said, almost gently, as if she was fragile. She glared at him, and when he next spoke he had changed his tone back to his normal one. “And told you that it would make you strong. They did it to break you, because then they could make you into whatever they wanted you to be.” She clenched her fist tightly and reminded herself not to kill him.

 _I am here,_ she thought. Gregor did not want her in King’s Landing. Gregor had ordered her to obey whoever was training her. The master-at-arms was a good fighter, his friend Pate who acted as his squire was less so. He had enjoyed beating her, first to make her strong, then maybe to prove she was obedient. Broken. Like the Imp said. Years had passed, but she had killed him. She had been perfect and obedient, serving Gregor and his men drinks in the knowledge that if she wanted to, she could slip poison into the cups and there was nothing that they could do. They had got drunker and drunker, and she had found Pate. Then she had beaten him badly enough that his injuries would have killed him, finished him off, cleaned herself up and not said a word. When they had found the body, they had assumed it to be Gregor. It always had been in the past.

“I was weak,” Alyssa said, then she gave him a cold smile. “They made me strong.”

“Would you truly wish that on Lady Sansa?” the Imp asked, and she hated his questioning. It had gone as well for her as she could possibly have expected. Better, as without Gregor the best she could have been was a novelty fuck whore. Or she would have died running away. Or she would still be trapped within the walls of the keep, until eventually somebody caught her, fucked her and killed her. But Sansa Stark was a highborn almost as high up as could be.

“No,” Alyssa said, almost as a whisper, like she had not decided to speak but the word had somehow escaped her lips. She did not even know if she had decided to speak, cursing herself as he had already decided her weak… but she did not enjoy seeing women and little girls beaten. She felt truly exhausted and drained, and she clenched her fist tightly, glaring straight ahead. She did not care at all about Sansa Stark. There was just benefit in getting on the good side of the future queen, especially as she was a Stark. It would help her keep her head if Robb Stark won the throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alyssa. She's slowly crumbling inside out and trying to supress everything. :( She managed to get through an entire conversation about Joffrey without being too treasonous out loud though.
> 
> Sandor POV next chapter. 
> 
> Tell me what you think. Reviews are awesome. :)


	12. Part 2; Enemy Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey is bored. Sandor and Alyssa talk about what to do with Gregor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Sandor POV.

Sandor stood behind Joffrey, one hand around the hilt of his sword staring out at those foolish enough to come to the king and ask for justice. He barely paid attention to the unlucky sod who had come to _beg_ the king to give him a little bit of food for his family, not much, as even though he had been a merchant he had been robbed and now _he_ had nothing too. He would pay it back, and so forth.

Joffrey, who had been slouching on the Iron Throne, straightened slightly and smiled like he had come up with an exceedingly clever idea. _He’s dead,_ Sandor thought, looking at the merchant.

“Your family will have their food,” Joffrey declared, and the man smiled and looked grateful. Joffrey looked at Ser Mandon. “Kill him, cut him into little pieces and send him to his family. If they are truly hungry, they will eat.”

Ser Mandon dragged the horrified and screaming man away, and Joffrey lounged back on his throne again. Joffrey decided the next man ought to have his tongue cut out without even listening to what he had to say as he found his voice annoying, and after that he seemed utterly bored. Moon Boy and Dontos pranced around to try to make the king happy, and Joffrey waved them away with an annoyed petulant sound.

Sandor stood behind Joffrey, barely watching what was going in front of him. He could still see Sansa Stark in the position in front of him, her terrified face as she chirped her courtesies at crossbow-point. The shine of the tears that had fallen from her eyes when Ser Meryn had punched her in the stomach, her bare shoulders when she’d been stripped.

He must have looked further, his eyes drawn downwards just momentarily, but the sight of her bruised body had made him look back up again. Joffrey had ordered her to be stripped in front of everybody, and he’d watched as she’d desperately tried to cover herself with her hands. At that moment, Sandor had just wanted to run Joffrey through with his sword, then wrap his little bird up in his cloak and kill anybody who tried to hurt her.

Like he was a fucking knight in one of those songs she loved so much. _His_ little bird _?_ It was never going to happen, the same as any fantasy about her. He should have looked. Every single man in the court had looked, taking her in like she was the sweetest sight they would ever behold. She likely was, even with the bruises. _She doesn’t want you looking at her, dog. No more than she wants to look at you._ He had put his cloak around her shoulders, but only at the Imp’s order.

“Dog!” Joffrey called, and Sandor followed. Pretended not to hear what Joffrey said he would do to the little bird. Tried to push any though of her out of his mind, as she belonged to Joffrey.

His niece had been there as well, he thought. Made Meryn Trant damn near piss himself, unmoving except to watch everyone and when she had reached for her sword. She had been on his mind near constantly, unless he got drunk enough to push those thoughts away. If she had truly fled Gregor, she would try to kill him, but Gregor was his to kill. That would be a fucking jape. Having to pay somebody off _not_ to face the Mountain in a fight. She’d happily take that coin and hide behind him, he reckoned.

He’d confronted as soon as he’d found out who she was, but the more he thought of it the more he was sure that there was no way she could have heard in the Riverlands that the Imp was recruiting. Half the people in King’s Landing did not know, as often as not it was the Imp’s sellsword who found recruits rather than the other way around. For somebody who said she had fled, she was hardly hiding. _Lying bitch._

 

“I-I want to thank you, ser,” Sansa said when he collected her the following morning. Sandor barked a laugh. Thanking him? Thanking him for doing nothing but watch as she was stripped, and now he was taking her to break her fast with the king and queen she so despised.

“I am no ser,” he snarled at her for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Thank you for the cloak, s--,” she cut off at his glare, which she seemed to feel although she was not looking directly at him. Sansa walked on his good side, looking straight ahead. “It was…”

“Was what? _Gallant_ of me,” he spat.

“ _Good_ of you. Nobody else did,” Sansa said tentatively, and he laughed again. His head throbbed with a slight hangover from the previous night of drinking. More wine would deal with that.

“Most would have,” Sandor said, although he would have found a reason to cut down anybody else who had decided to use that opportunity to touch her. “The Imp had ordered it. Taken it as a chance to touch your smooth pretty skin.”

Sansa did not seem to know what to say about that. She opened her mouth again, twice, during the walk, but neither time did sound come out. Sandor opened the door for her, followed her inside then stood guard. She chirped her courtesies again, for Cersei and Joffrey both. Myrcella was sitting very closely to Cersei, most likely at Cersei’s behest. Cersei had been spending more time than usual with her daughter since she had heard the Imp had arranged a marriage between her and Trystane Martell.

Myrcella, however, seemed more interested in speaking with Sansa, and every time they said more than a few words to her Cersei would tell them off. Myrcella quietened down and did not speak any more after the second time her mother scolded her. Tommen had not spoken at all, looking nervously at Joffrey between bites.

Joffrey seemed truly bored. He pushed his food around with his fork, occasionally eating then complaining about the taste in some easily fixable way. First there was too little salt, then too much salt when a serving girl added just a tiny bit more salt to his meal.

“Did you enjoy it?” Joffrey asked Sansa suddenly, a sadistic gleam in his eyes.

“Enjoy what, your Grace?” Sansa asked, her mask in place.

“Yesterday, stupid girl,” Joffrey said gleefully. “The eyes of half the court on you. They would all happily fuck you, if I’d let them. Like the worthless wolf whore you are.” Sandor’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Sansa was facing away from him, so he could not see her expression.

“I have eyes only for you, your Grace,” Sansa said, her voice mostly even although he could hear the fear. “Please do not make them… dishonour me. I only wish to be worthy of you.”

“Your father’s a traitor. Your brother’s a traitor. Your entire family are traitors,” Joffrey said. “You will never be worthy of me.”

“Joff, her brother still has your uncle Jaime,” Cersei reminded her son gently, and Joffrey gave her an annoyed pout. Joffrey turned his boredom to Tommen instead, and Sandor kept his hand tightly clenched around the hilt of his sword. Joffrey was truly a spoiled little cunt, and Sandor fought the urge to strangle him.

It was a relief when it was his turn to go on patrol.

 

Sandor returned to the Red Keep in the middle of the night, staggering slightly when he reached the steps. Littlefucker’s whores were no better than any of the others. They still charged him extra, and refused to look him in the face half the time. Littlefucker had told him personally that he had just the whore he would like, and Sandor could swear he was basically salivating himself when looking at her. In her late twenties, red-haired, looking more like Catelyn Stark had when he’d seen her in Winterfell than her daughter. It probably explained Littlefucker’s salivating.

Tarra, the girl had said she was called. Called him ‘ser’, and when Sandor had snarled at her she had swapped to ‘my lord’. Some more snarling later, she had stopped calling him anything, and in the end he’d just fucked her from behind. Not worth the amount of gold dragons he’d had to give her. He’d gone to a tavern next, drinking away any thoughts that had resurfaced about tortured birds and lying bitches. Not that he couldn’t find out exactly how much his niece had lied.

It was late, but he searched the training area nearest to the Tower of the Hand anyway. She trained at night sometimes, he had heard. If nothing else she had a lot of stamina and endurance to her. Sandor found her leaning against a wall drinking thirstily from a wineskin, her shield loosely hanging from her left arm. Sweat was pouring down her bruised face, and she looked truly exhausted, although the exhaustion seemed to visibly fade when she spotted him. She straightened. “Hound.”

“Why are you here?” Sandor demanded, not quite drunk enough for his words to slur.

“Lannisters are very rich,” she said.

“They are rich in Lannisport and rich in Casterly Rock,” Sandor mocked. “Did you hear all the way in the Riverlands that the Imp was taking women and sellswords?”

“News travels,” she said coldly, and Sandor roared with laughter. She was so fucking false. She had told him two _general statements_ , pretending that they were reasons with a glare. He glared her down, and she continued. “I had to get out of the Riverlands, so I went south. I heard from a sellsword.”

She was still playing him false. The girl was a good liar, and not many would lie to his face with the disinterested confidence she still had, but he had been in King’s Landing for too long not to see the lie.

“Do not lie to me, girl,” he snarled at her, and her eyes flashed with anger. “You did not come for the Imp!”

“Lord Tyrion pays well,” the girl said, unflinching. She took several steps closer to him. “I _came_ for you. You saved Ser… Loras.”

“You came for me because I saved some pansy knight?” Sandor said, disbelieving. “Because I got coin from that, you mean.” She gave him a nod, and it was as honest as she had been to him.

“How do you mean to kill him?” she asked, and Sandor felt his already poor mood sour further at the mention of his brother. He found his own wineskin and drank, gulping half of it down before answering her.

“I will burn him,” Sandor spat, and he saw a slight flicker of fear in the girl’s eyes. No disgust though. She did not care whether or not her father burned. She’d probably quite enjoy it, judging by the look she next gave him.

“How?” she asked. Sandor scowled at her. He would have to injure Gregor first, maybe impale him into the ground. In truth, while he had spent years imagining ways to kill his brother, ways to make him suffer and burn like he’d done, he had not chosen one specific way to do it. Odds were he would not even survive the confrontation, even if he killed Gregor, but if he died at least he wanted the memory of Gregor’s agonized screams. For almost as long as he could remember, he had wanted nothing more.

“Impale hi…” he said.

“He is stronger than you. You cannot overpower him,” she cut him off coldly.

“Have you seen me fight, girl?” Sandor demanded, getting closer to her. Unlike last time, she did not give him a single inch. He sneered at her. “Right then, how would you kill Gregor?”

She did not speak straight away, and he waited. Almost reached out to shake her, except the way she was now positioned behind her shield made it hard for him to grip her.

“Poison him enough to send him to sleep, then stab him through the neck,” she said. _Poison is a craven’s weapon, for eunuchs or women,_ Sandor thought, then almost laughed at himself. He’d wager somebody had foolishly told her the same, and she as a woman would only have taken it as encouragement. “But you do not want him dead.”

His temper flared again, but the way her shield was angled, even hitting her mostly unprotected face would be difficult. Drawing his sword would turn it into a proper fight, he could see it in her eyes, and with the way she spoke he would not put it past her to have poisoned her weapons.

“I want him dead more than I want anything else,” Sandor growled in a low voice, and there was just a red flash at the back of his mind which told him that maybe it was not fully true. Fuck that.

“You had decades to kill him,” she said, still cold. She regarded him, unspeaking, like he was a puzzle she wanted to figure out. Then she smiled, and for a moment her poise and expression did not remind him of Gregor but of Joffrey instead.

“Why don’t you stop him being alive and well?” she suggested. “Drug him, and instead of stabbing him cut off his sword arm. Then one of his legs, other arm, other leg, in case he wakes. Sear the wounds. He’s a strong man, he will survive. Leave his cock so Lord Tywin can still get pups out of him, more like than when he had limbs at any rate. You can do what you please to him, and he will not be able to hurt you.”

Sandor felt cold. He watched her, and she returned his gaze, still unflinching. The thought left him with a sick feeling in his stomach. He had considered killing Gregor a lot of ways, but he had never considered drugging him, _quartering him when he was still drugged, and torturing what remained_.

“No,” he snarled at her, and he could not read the look she gave him. He fought the urge to take a step back. His brother’s daughter took a few steps back from him, then looked down to the ground for a moment, one hand out in surrender.

“You harm me, I harm you,” she stated, and her tone was stone and ice, a threat and a warning all rolled into one. She poked harshly at her face and the bruises he had left. Bruises that would fade, unlike the fucked up mess Gregor had left of his face. “We are good.” She walked away from him, her armour clanking loudly as she passed, and he did not follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Alyssa, that’s got the risk of escalating so quickly.
> 
> While I think Sandor wants to kill Gregor and probably burn him as well, I do not see him wanting to go quite as far as quartering him, healing those wounds, torturing him, healing him, and repeat. Alyssa, however, sees quartering Gregor as simple pragmatism, as she knows Gregor and isn’t about to make the same mistake Oberyn Martell did (not that he’s made it in this point of the story yet). Either kill him quick, or after that point she can afford to take her time.
> 
> And Sansa was also in this! 
> 
> Tell me what you think. Reviews make me very happy. :)


	13. Make Belief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa and Tyrion start to try to help Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back. Exams are over! :D
> 
> It's Sansa's turn this chapter. Well, part of it, anyway.

Alyssa knocked on the door, feeling cold despite the warmth. _I do not care,_ she told herself. If she got in bad with the future queen, Robb Stark was unlikely to win against Tywin Lannister and queens had less power than kings. _Sansa Stark is stronger than King Waters, and strength makes power._

Sansa Stark was stronger than Joffrey, but still a highborn girl. The Imp had told Alyssa about a young girl who liked songs and stories of gallant knights, perfectly ladylike, a girl who had actually been infatuated with Joffrey back before she had left her home. _Does nobody in the North know the Rains of Castamere?_ Alyssa pushed it out of her mind.

_I do not care,_ she told herself again, clenching her fist. This time, she told herself, there was something she could do. A mercy better than a slit throat, except she was playing make belief with a dwarf. The Imp was going to get himself executed for treason, and they were more likely to send her back to Gregor than pay her off. That thought made her feel better, and she knew it to be true, although she would still have preferred coin.

And the Imp… Tyrion… was giving her coin for this. He had been giving her more coin, but seemed to be watching her more closely since they had first spoken about the future queen.

‘My brother, Ser Jaime Lannister. One of the best swordsmen in the whole of Westeros. Have you heard of him?’ Tyrion had said, and Alyssa had looked up and given him a look. Everybody had heard of the Kingslayer. ‘I can tell you now that he tended to spend more of the night sleeping than training.’ And she had mentally cursed herself and him, and focussed herself. Clenched her fist under the table, so he would not see.

She wasn’t training more than she was sleeping, just enough so that she could fall back into sleep again, and when her visor was down it did not take a visible toll on her. When it came to actual fights, she found herself very suddenly alert even with less sleep. The ache of her body would fade, and it only ached as badly as it did because her body was not as used to training as it had been.

‘I can still protect you,’ Alyssa had said. Tyrion had waved his hands as if in surrender.

‘As you say,’ Tyrion had said. ‘And I suppose that maester Bronn sent you told you to get as little rest and strain yourself as much as you possibly could without keeling over.’

_If I cut you open, more wine would come out than blood,_ Alyssa had thought. The maester had thought her to be a weak little girl, but Tyrion was right. She had yielded then, and later that day Tyrion had given her some salve and a sleeping potion. It was not poison, she knew, although it did not smell of anything she recognized; he was a smart man, and smart men looked after their own interests. She was the one guarding him, and that was the only reason he cared at all whether she lived or died. He had seen her weakness, and the only reason he still kept her on as a guard was because it was not a very visible weakness. He could exploit it if need be, but others could not see it to exploit it. That was even more useful to him than her having no weaknesses at all.

The future queen opened the door. Her handmaidens had already been and gone, and even though she looked exhausted she was still ridiculously highborn. She smelled of lemons and flowers, and it had probably taken hours to style her hair. Even if the dress was slightly small for her it looked like it cost more than the smallfolk in the city below had a hope of earning in their lives. _It_ is _a bit small for her._ The dress looked to have been made when Sansa was still a child, before she had developed curves.

“Does Lord Tyrion wish to see me, ser?” Lady Sansa asked. _Good girl._ The future queen was paying attention to who belonged to who. Alyssa nodded, not stepping aside, focussing on the coldness. _I feel nothing._

“You are a Stark,” Alyssa said, and fear flickered over the girl’s face.

“I have no part in my brother’s treasons,” Sansa said. Alyssa flicked her visor up, smirking at Sansa’s surprised look which faded quicker than the fear did.

“True enough,” Alyssa said, unmoving, still blocking the door. “But you are still a Stark. The Hand of the King needs you alive and unharmed. You being well treated is what he can use to keep his head, not his gold. It’s how his brother stays safe. They hurt you bad enough, and they can start cutting pieces off him, and the Queen Regent and the Hand both care for him.”

“My…” Sansa started, then cut off. Alyssa waited. “My brother will not hurt Ser Jaime. The North does not torture prisoners.”

“The flayed man,” Alyssa said.

“Flaying has been outlawed for centuries,” Sansa said nervously. Alyssa was pretty sure most of what Gregor did was outlawed as well. “It is merely House Bolton’s sigil. I swear, my traitor brother will not hurt Ser Jaime.” The girl was too nervous.

“And if he does?” Alyssa asked, making sure she did not glare directly at Sansa when she spoke.

“He is the family of my betrothed and he will be my family as well. I do not want him harmed,” Sansa said. _Highborn girl,_ Alyssa reminded herself, clenching her fist behind her shield. She felt nothing. _If somebody hurts me, I hurt them worse… or kill them._ Usually killing them was safer, for if she hurt them worse, they would hurt her worse again.

“Ser Meryn Trant should fear you,” Alyssa said instead, lowering her voice just slightly although if she was going to be accused of treason it was just as likely for being the Imp’s creature or not being in a dress than for something somebody _might_ have heard her say from afar. “You will be queen. You are betrothed to the king. Strike a royal, and they take your hand, but he needs his hands to serve. He was frightened by a woman and a sellsword, so make him fearsome to look upon. Say it right, and the king will take your suggestion.” _Say it right, and he will go hard._ “But it won’t just be cunts.”

“I couldn’t…” Sansa said nervously. “Ser Meryn was only doing as Joffrey commanded.”

“The king did not command him to be frightened by a woman and a sellsword,” Alyssa said, flicking her visor down again and stepping aside. She followed several steps behind Sansa, and they walked in silence. Sansa still seemed afraid, less the queen than the last time Alyssa had seen her. _They are making her strong, but she is weak,_ but Tyrion’s words came to mind again, and she swallowed. Women were weaker than men, so they had to be trained more, and more brutally, to get even near the same level of strength. How exactly did Tyrion reckon it could be done while wrapping Sansa in silk and blankets?

The solar was on the top floor of the Tower of the Hand, and when they reached it Alyssa knocked on the door then pushed it open, stepping aside and holding it there for Sansa.

“Thank you,” Sansa said with a nervous half-smile as she passed. Alyssa gave her a nod, then Sansa looked at Tyrion. “You wished to speak to me, my lord?”

“Please sit down,” Tyrion said, and Sansa obeyed like a good highborn lady should. “Did Alyssa tell you why I wanted to speak to you, or did she just glare and look threatening?” Alyssa glared at him. “I feel that.” Sansa’s back was now to her, so Alyssa could not see her reaction.

“She did not tell me,” Sansa said.

“Don’t feel bad. I need to pay her to do more than grunt at me. If she’s said a few words to you, you are doing well,” Tyrion said. He turned to Alyssa. “Leave us.”

“My lord,” Alyssa said with another nod, stepping out into the hallway and letting the door shut behind her. _I am playing make belief with a dwarf,_ Alyssa thought again, but did it truly matter? The coin he was paying her was real, as was the horse she could flee on and the father she could still hide behind.

 

“How are you feeling today?” Lord Tyrion asked as soon as they were alone, and Sansa gave him a smile. She had bruises over the back of her thighs where Ser Meryn had struck her with the flat of his sword, and they hurt whenever she sat down, even with the extra cushions Lord Tyrion seemed to have placed down for her. Her stomach was still bruised and painful from Ser Meryn’s fist. She had slept under the Hound’s cloak again, waking up early and tidying it away before Shae or any of her other handmaidens could come and see that she still had it.

She should have offered to give the Hound his cloak back, she knew. That would have been the polite thing to do, but he had not taken her thanks and likely would have laughed and mocked her. _He is not used to thanks._ He’d had another cloak around his shoulders then, and having his cloak made her feel oddly safe. He had been the one who had covered her, despite it being Lord Tyrion who had given the order. He had been the first to move, and he although he had torn the cloak from his shoulders he had been almost gentle when wrapping it around her. He was so angry, but he had never struck her, not like any of the others. Not even when Joffrey had tried to order it, and she had Ser Dontos to thank for Joffrey truly not noticing it.

“I am fine, thank you, my lord,” Sansa said politely. Tyrion poured her a glass of wine and she took a small sip, although she did not like the taste. It burned in the back of her throat, stronger than most of the other wines she had been allowed to try. “I have not thanked you properly. I should have come and found you. It was very good of you to help me.”

Even with his kindness, she knew he was still a Lannister. He wanted to use her like all the rest. He still wanted the rest of her family dead, and his offers frightened her. His guard’s offers frightened her as well. If Joffrey heard, it would be her to be punished. However badly they hurt Ser Jaime, Joffrey had promised, she would be hurt twice as bad. If Ser Jaime was killed, she would be too, and as they had no reason for her to be alive Joffrey had promised that it would be slow.

“You do not need to thank me,” Tyrion said. “I am not going to let Joffrey have his guards beat you. Half the Kingsguard cannot guard a sack of flour, let alone a king, even if Joffrey did order them to protect you. I am going to assign you a guard, so it does not happen again.”

_No!_ Sansa thought. The panic almost took hold. She wanted to go home. Ser Dontos could not rescue her and spirit her away if Tyrion gave her a guard. Perhaps Tyrion would keep her safe, like his guard had said, to take care of his own interests, but he would not let her go home.

“That isn’t necessary,” Sansa said. “King Joffrey sees to my protection. I feel safe with the Kingsguard protecting me.”

“There is no need for that here, Lady Sansa,” Lord Tyrion said. His mismatched gaze bore into her, and she felt her panic rising. “It will be your choice who. How did Alyssa treat you?”

“She was…” Sansa paused. No matter what Alyssa had said, she had been completely emotionless. Her eyes had even looked it, cold and empty and somewhat distant. _She speaks like she does not care whether or not I believe her,_ Sansa realized, wondering if Alyssa even cared at all. But those were not the words of somebody who did not care, even if all she wanted to do was what she suggested Tyrion wanted, which was to be good to Sansa in order keep her head. Somehow the honest answer came to Sansa’s lips. “Cold.”

“She is not used to helping people,” Tyrion said with a small shake of his head. “She _is_ cold, sometimes she accidentally makes herself angry by thinking the wrong thoughts, and she has some truly horrible notions in her head. I would be a fool to describe her as a good person, but few have been good to her. She understands what you are going through.” _Meryn Trant should fear you,_ she had said. _But it won’t just be…_ It would also be innocents, was what she had meant. Sansa could not imagine going up to Joffrey and asking him to torture somebody or kill somebody. The very thought made her almost physically sick. She would not wish Joffrey on anybody, even if that person was Meryn Trant. Robb would come for her, and Ser Meryn would be killed in the battle or executed afterwards, but he would not be tortured. “Do you see the resemblance?”

Sansa shook her head. Alyssa was extremely tall, but with the dark bruises and her glare it was hard for her to recall Alyssa’s actual features. Alyssa had grey eyes though, that much Sansa could remember. Her ears and parts of her cheeks were concealed by her helm, even with her visor up. Sansa had been too focussed on the words and her threatening presence blocking the door, the shock that Lord Tyrion’s new guard was actually a woman and a stray thought of how Arya would have loved to meet her. Arya had almost been _bouncing_ with excited, no matter how hard Mother and Septa Mordane had tried to get her to sit still, when the Mormonts had come to visit, even if the women had been in dresses not armour at the time. Sansa had quickly pushed those thoughts away, trying not to think of her lost sister or the rest of her family.

“She is the Hound’s niece,” Lord Tyrion said. “Gregor Clegane’s daughter. She grew up in Clegane Keep.”

Sansa nodded, horrified. The Hound’s story came back to her mind. Gregor Clegane was a truly horrible man beyond description, and Sansa could not imagine having to grow up with a man such as him as her father.

“I didn’t know,” Sansa felt herself say, stupidly, although Tyrion obviously knew that she hadn’t. The dwarf looked at her curiously, but did not comment. “B-but I do not want her as a guard. Truly.”

Tyrion’s curious look only intensified, and Sansa took another nervous sip of her wine. She had not yet broken her fast, and she was already beginning to feel the wine making her head slightly foggy.

“Would you like any of the mountain clans?” Tyrion asked. “Some Stone Crows, or perhaps some Black Ears if having a woman there would make you feel more at ease.”

Sansa swallowed. “Please, no, my lord. The mountain clans frighten me.” It was not even a lie, although they did not frighten her more than the Kingsguard stripping and beating her.

“A queen has her own guards,” Lord Tyrion said. “You should have the same if you are to be queen. If you want to get out of this betrothal to Joffrey, tell me, and I will find a way to do that for you. If not, I will be honoured to help you be the best queen you can.”

“I am truly happy with Joffrey,” Sansa said. She knew those words by rote, she had said them so many times. She did not even want to be queen anymore, for now the word queen brought Cersei to mind with her fake smiles and kindness that attempted to hide her cruel manipulations. She just wanted her family. Her mother, her father, Robb and Bran and Rickon and even Arya who she had always fought with. “He is my one true love. I would be delighted to have you teach me how to be a good queen to him.” At least with Tyrion she would not have to fear a beating.

Tyrion smiled at her, and the smile twisted his face in such a way that a year ago she would have called hideous. “Alyssa will take you back to your room. I will send for you on the morrow.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, and Tyrion got up and waddled over to the door before pulling it open. Alyssa stood at the end of the hall, her visor down, but her head very visibly turned in their direction to watch them. When Sansa slowly walked past, Alyssa followed.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa blurted, and she could feel Alyssa looking at her then. “I mean, Lord Tyrion told me you grew up at Clegane Keep.” Sansa turned around, not that there was anything she could do if Alyssa attacked her. She had been too caught up in sudden compassion, she had forgotten all about what Tyrion had said about Alyssa not being a good person. Everybody was right. She was a stupid little girl still. The Hound terrified her with his anger, and the Mountain’s anger… Sansa found herself trembling, except Alyssa had not even moved.

“What did he tell you?” Alyssa asked emotionlessly.

“J-just that and that Ser Gregor is your father,” Sansa stammered. They had stopped moving, and with Alyssa standing two steps above her it made her seem even taller and more intimidating. Alyssa sighed, a low drawn out sound, and flicked her visor up. _Fury_ was in her eyes now, dangerous and terrifying, even if Alyssa kept the rest of her face looking calm.

“You are apologizing for Gregor being my father?” Alyssa said. “I am a bastard. I could be in far worse places than I am.” Alyssa watched her for a moment without speaking, and Sansa almost took a step back before remembering that she was on a staircase. She quickly grabbed the wall in a very inelegant way to stop herself from falling. “Do you know the Rains of Castamere?”

“The Lannister song?” Sansa asked, her mind going completely blank under Alyssa’s gaze. She might have heard it before, but she was not sure. It was not the type of song she used to know. “N-not truly.”

“I did, before I came here,” Alyssa said, then paused. “I am sorry.”

The tone did it, for the tone had mimicked Sansa’s but colder. Alyssa needed no more words, and Sansa looked away to stop Alyssa from seeing the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Her father was meant to be a traitor in her eyes; they could not see tears.

_I am sorry Eddard Stark was your father,_ Alyssa had not said, just as Sansa had not said she was sorry Gregor Clegane was Alyssa’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking next chapter either Alyssa with Bronn, or Shae turning up properly. 
> 
> So, Alyssa and Sansa have met. Tell me what you think. :)


	14. The City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa does not hate Bronn.

The children followed her, recognizing her although it had been weeks since she had fed them. They swarmed around her as she passed through the street. Little children were braver than adults, it seemed. Little children were braver than the future queen.

Or perhaps it was because they knew she was weak, and that she would feed them. She had filled her pouch with food at dinner, because people could not eat gold. The city starved, so she could get information for food, a free currency that Tyrion did not seem to mind her taking as in the Red Keep they had food plenty.

Children were like crows. Feed them once, they followed you. They squabbled like a flock of crows as well, pushing each other out of the way, but still giving her some berth. One particularly brave boy grabbed for her belt, and she forced her palm into the centre of his chest hard enough that he tripped and flew backwards several feet. They gave her a bit wider berth after that, still holding out their hands and begging, hungrier than they were even two weeks before.

_I am playing make belief with a dwarf,_ Alyssa thought again, sighing and hating the fear. _They should fear me. They are children. If they do not fear me, I am weak._ She paid them off and did not threaten, but there certainly had to be some fear there. Yet apparently there was some stupid part of her that did not want to be feared, like she had hated the fear on Sansa Stark’s face.

_Highborn girl,_ Alyssa reminded herself, bitterer than before. _Future queen._ She clenched her fist, quite unsure what she was feeling. Of course Tyrion had told. There were no secrets in the Red Keep, and it was best that he had, but that had not stopped the stupidest feeling of betrayal that had passed through her.

The future queen had wept, or near enough. At the very least, her eyes had shone with unshed tears, and Alyssa had felt the fury building inside her. She had flicked her visor roughly back down then, focussing herself.

‘Only a fool would hurt the future queen,’ Alyssa had told Sansa then, but Sansa had still been terrified, not even looking in her direction. Sansa had even fucking _apologized,_ all proper and courteous and stupid and highborn. Alyssa had asked her one more question, because she had already fucked everything up, and they had walked back to Sansa’s room in silence after that.

Alyssa _hated_ Lord Eddard Stark, and she had no word for him. He had ordered her dead and sent men to kill her. Tyrion said he was honourable, but he had been Hand of the King. Somehow he had managed to get himself executed and started a war. Perhaps he was honourable, but honourable men stood no chance against dishonourable ones.

_Lord Stark started a war with his honour. Lord Stark killed more people by being_ honourable _than Gregor ever has by being a cunt,_ Alyssa thought, but that she had only truly noticed later when she had asked Tyrion about him. _Lord Stark sent his daughter into the lion’s den and told her the song was Florian and Jonquil not the Rains of Castamere._

‘So it’s Ned Stark’s turn then?’ Tyrion had asked her. ‘How will you manage that? Deciding somebody who is already dead is to blame for everything that happens.’ Alyssa had hated the fact that she’d had to yield to the fucking Imp again. ‘Lady Sansa is still mourning her father, however little she is allowed to show it. Do not make it worse for her.’

‘Her enemies will,’ Alyssa had said.

‘That does not mean you have to,’ Tyrion had said, and then given her a look that had cut into her. ‘To her, right now you are not much better than an enemy.’ She had been outside the door, but guarding, ever obedient, before she even realized she had moved. Then cursing herself for moving, as it was a lapse of control.

“Information,” she grunted at the children, and that they did give her. They did not appear to understand what treason was. One young boy just prattled on about how Renly was going to save everybody, that he had managed to sneak into the Tourney of the Hand and that he had seen Renly joust. A slightly older girl had added that Renly was very handsome and gallant. Renly would feed them, or the Young Wolf would. One boy had heard he could turn into a wolf, and another said that he got stronger every time the moon was high. They all hated Joffrey.

When she gave them food, they forgot about any king.

The stables were also worse than she remembered them, and Arrow was thinner. She could see the outline of ribs on her horse, and he reared up when he saw her. Alyssa took a step back. Arrow was thinner and flea-bitten, restless in his stable. She clenched her fist tightly, half cursing the stable master and half her own stupidity.

There was not enough food for people, let alone horses. Horses became food when people got hungry enough. She had to move her horse to the stables in the Red Keep, or she would have no horse to flee on at all. _Trapped._ She almost laughed, biting her lip to stop herself, as she was. It was like the gods were telling her that her place was here.

“Feed my horse,” she snarled at a stable boy before she left. She could flee on any horse, but she’d had her pick of horses at Clegane Keep. One was interchangeable for another in the way that a horse was a horse, but some had greater speed or greater endurance and that was hard to tell at a look. At home, she’d known most all the horses since they were foals.

_Rich knights have good horses,_ Alyssa thought, simply because they had the coin for them. If she stole one of the best it really ought to give her an advantage. Perhaps a destrier rather than her own courser, but such horses would stand out and make it difficult to keep hidden. She would have to go to the stables in the Red Keep to figure out which ones were best, and if she had a horse in the stables she would have reason to go to them. Tyrion would not refuse her, she was pretty sure.

She acquired some blades next. A forge sold them, and this time around she had gold plenty. Man or woman, she had gold, although Gregor would easily have got the same blades for less. She tested the weight of the short sword before sheathing it into her belt. The bastard sword was for her, as it gave her a slightly greater range than the longsword, then she chose a dagger and a smaller blade for easy concealment. She had a lot of daggers, but those daggers had all been bloodied. The future queen was a weak innocent thing.

_Not so innocent. A queen cannot be innocent. A queen cannot be weak._ The look of fear came back to her, and Alyssa clenched her fist. Fucking highborns. _No, not just highborns._ She realized then, why she hated that look. It was the fear the serving girls gave her, back at Clegane Keep, although she had never done them harm. She would _never_ do them true harm, because they were her… her… Alyssa swallowed, unsure, forcing herself not to think of it. But Sansa she could protect… _I am just playing make belief with a fucking dwarf._

She took a breath. The servants were nothing to her. Sansa was nothing to her. The Young Wolf would not beat Tywin Lannister, even if he somehow got stronger with every moon like that boy seemed to believe. All she was doing was escorting Sansa when the Imp demanded it.

By the time she had negotiated a price, it was dark outside and colder too although the armour kept her warm. She took another breath, watching the mist from her breath rise into the air then out of her sight, clenching her fist again then walking quickly. She brought her right hand to her longsword, ready for attack, almost stupidly hoping that somebody would even though if they had numbers enough they could overwhelm her.

_Six gold dragons._ She had six dragons remaining, five would be enough to flee. If she found Bronn, then he would spar with her, then she would feel better. She would be better able to think.

Bronn was not in the brothel where she had first met him, but in one of the neighbouring taverns drinking with several other sellswords and with a woman on his lap. They sharing japes and telling stories, and Alyssa watched them. The sellswords looked typical, although so did Bronn and he had beaten her in a fight. Bronn, however, had been paid to do so by Tyrion. They were drunk, but not so drunk that they would not put up a fight.

Alyssa walked up to Bronn, waited by his table and stared at him, a hand on her sword. Bronn sighed, and waved the other sellswords away with an almost bored expression. They left quickly. Sellswords were not brave creatures by nature.

“You always frighten my whores away,” Bronn said as she sat down opposite him. He gave her a smirk, leaning forwards and flicking her visor up. She flinched, tensing and hoping he did not see.

“Even the men?” Alyssa asked, and Bronn chuckled despite the fact it was a poor jape and not at all what he had meant. His breath stank of wine, but not near as badly as the Hound’s had done. She preferred Bronn by far though. Bronn was not the one who claimed to hate Gregor, then refused to kill him and helped raise his kingly double. Bronn was not the one who claimed to hate Gregor, then acted enough like him that as far as the world was the concerned they were the same.

“If that were true, then you would have frightened away even more whores,” Bronn said. “It’s their swords they sell, not their cunts.”

“The male version of being a whore,” Alyssa said.

“Sellswords don’t have nearly as nice tits,” Bronn said, and she could not help herself when she snorted a laugh.

“We spar,” Alyssa said after a pause, and then he touched her face. Again, he was oddly gentle. His thumb traced her cheekbone. _I’m exhausted and he’s drunk. We are even,_ she realized, and she found herself leaning into his touch. Her eyes almost fluttered shut, and she opened them again. He was teasing her with his touch. Clenching her right fist, she slammed her hand down on the table. “We spar.”

“Whatever turns you on,” Bronn said, and she bared her teeth and snarled at him.

“I hate you,” she spat.

“You do not,” Bronn just said with utter confidence, staring her down although he did not glare. She gave him a small nod and stood, flicking her visor back down again. He led her back to the Red Keep, in particular to the training area, and she followed. Smiling beneath her visor, she drew her new bastard sword.

“Tourney swords, Alyssa,” Bronn said, and she frowned, but took the sword that he gave her. Bronn took another tourney sword, and gripped the blade tightly with one of his hands to show it had no edge.

And then she lunged at him. His movements were rapid, but not quite as rapid as they usually were. Unpredictable, but more predictable as she knew him. His movements had become familiar to her. She knew his technique and his stances. She lunged for him, using the fact that he was slightly drunk and slightly slower, forcing the blade into the side of his ribs. He stumbled but did not fall, darting inwards. She blocked his sword with her shield, and then he was gone. She moved in the opposite direction, turning and using her pathetic tourney sword as a club. He dodged, but it was a near thing. Sometimes, it was her who was caught out, but even if he had used a normal blade the blows would have deflected off her shield and armour. Twice it was him, and the second time she was calmer, although her heart was racing and she could feel that her face was flushed.

She was close, close enough to grab him. She forced her sword into his shoulder, and the bottom of her shield into the back of his knee. He went to his knees, and she discarded the sword, pushing him down further and straddling him on the ground. He still had his sword, but she pushed it away with her palm. It was a tourney blade and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, such denial. 
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	15. Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa *really* does not hate Bronn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, slightly shorter chapter. 
> 
> Warnings for past non-con.

Usually, taking her armour off made her feel more stripped bare than removing her clothes. Armour shielded from most everything, clothes did not truly shield anything except cold and gazes, though being less clothed would make men more likely to fuck you. Usually _._

She was dressed in nothing but smallclothes. Alyssa sat straight, resisting any urge to cover herself, forcing herself not to think of the way Bronn had looked at her. Straddling him, with her heart rate up and his touch on her, she had thought if he was going to fuck her he might as well get it over with. She wanted his touch, but not for him to continue teasing her with light caresses that affected her more than they should. If she fucked him, perhaps then it would stop. At the very least he would stop touching her and teasing her.

 _Would he fuck me for coin after he’s had his novelty fuck?_ Alyssa had wondered in a moment of foolishness. Or perhaps without even, if he did not want to be a man whore. That would save her coin. But she would not fuck him again. Not if he looked at her like _that,_ like she was pathetic and pitiful and _weak._

 _I won,_ Alyssa thought. They were old marks faded to white, except the red line at her waist where Bronn himself had stabbed her, and her forearm which was still covered by the brace. She stood, refusing to cower, turning and letting him see her. Letting him judge her, although the brief shock had faded and anger was in his eyes instead.

“Gregor?” Bronn just asked.

“Dead men,” Alyssa said. Mostly true.

“Good,” Bronn said as coldly as she had ever heard him. He approached her slowly, and she grabbed him and pulled him close to her. Her other hand went to his breeches and she fumbled with them roughly. He was not hard, not near as turned on as he was before. He caught her wrist. “Not yet.”

His hands explored her slowly, too slowly. _Bronn._ His fingers traced her arms, and she twisted to unstrap her breasts. When he touched them, his fingers circling her nipples, she let out a soft moan she had not known herself able to make. There was a throbbing inside her that she had not felt before, and she cursed him but did not move to stop him. She would kill him if he stopped.

“Lie back,” Bronn said, and she obeyed him without a thought. He straddled her, and she resisted the urge to tear the clothes from his body. He was content to keep teasing her, when really he ought to just stick his cock in her.

“Keep going,” Alyssa said, and Bronn obeyed even though he was on top. Her heart was racing, half out of lust and half out of sudden fear. She was his. It was far more easy for him to hurt her than the other way round, but she forced herself not to react. He was gentle. If he was going to harm her, he’d had plenty of chances.

He was gentle, and his touch caused most of the tension to seep from her muscles but grow between her legs. Then it grew in her stomach as well, and it took her a while to recognize that feeling as nerves. She had been at his mercy before, but she’d had armour or weapons and he’d been far further away.

When he started using his mouth, her traitorous body shuddered and she let out another moan. The tension between her legs was winning, and she could feel the wetness growing although that did little to stop the throbbing.

His hands were at her waist, then at her hips, pushing her smallclothes down, and she wanted to tear his cock from his breeches. But she knew this, and instinct forced her to go still. _Survive,_ submit. _Bronn,_ she reminded herself, swallowing but managing to make herself relax. Bronn was gentle. He was gentle when he touched her. He was gentle when he touched her cunt. He was gentle when he slipped his fingers inside her, and she felt her breaths catch in her throat. _Survive._ He wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to stop, he had to stop she could not expect him to stop she could not make him stop. If she fought she would die.

 _It’s Bronn,_ she remembered suddenly, taking several breaths in quick succession to get air back into her lungs. She could make Bronn stop, except he had already stopped and was no longer touching her. Alyssa clenched her fist tightly. She had not told him, had not fought, had not even done anything, and he had that fucking look to him again.

“Continue,” Alyssa said, and she sounded choked even to her own ears. He did not continue, and she clenched her fist tightly again. She was not weak, she could do this. She would fuck him.

“Alyssa,” Bronn said, too fucking gentle, and she grabbed him, forcing herself up and using his body as leverage. They became tangled on the floor rather than on the bed, and she pinned him beneath her.

The look wasn’t there anymore. She was a novelty fuck. That was all she was. Any whore could spread her legs. She was on top and he was hers. He did not fight her for dominance, so she did not need to keep him fully pinned. She tore his clothes, forcing his breeches roughly down to his knees. Bronn caught her hand.

“Alyssa,” he said again, rubbing small circles into the back of her hand like he had done the first day they had met. She froze, and he pushed her back gently enough that she did not resist. He was regarding her like he would a spooked horse. Disappointment crashed down on her, and she tried to bring the coldness back although she could not focus on it. Even anger did not come, and that frightened her more than anything. It was like she had been completely drained.

The children knew it, fuck even Tyrion knew it. Why else try to make her Sansa’s guard? Tyrion was a smart man, too smart for make belief. Make the weak girl guard to the weak princess. The fucking Imp had seen too many similarities between her and the future queen.

She was too weak, that was why she would no longer be guarding Tyrion. But the future queen was safe as could be, providing she stayed in her Red Keep prison. A useless guard was good for that, and she had never been able to guard anybody. Get her out of the way until it was convenient for her father to pick her up.

Bronn was watching her, and he stood slowly. _You have to kill him,_ Alyssa told herself, or everybody would know. But when Bronn moved, she did not follow.

A soft warmth surrounded her and she realized Bronn had draped the blanket over her. Then he knelt beside her, and gently brought her close to him. He was warm against her, and somehow she found herself pulling him closer rather than pushing him away. Tears came to her eyes, and she just about managed not to let them fall. She could not even fuck a sellsword properly. Any whore could spread her legs. That made her more useless than a _whore._ If Gregor caught her, he would be pissed off enough to kill her quickly. He would not punish her for a whore. She should be able to fuck any sellsword she pleased. Instead she was just clinging to one like a child would cling to her mother.

 _Worse than a whore, worse than a child,_ Alyssa thought. The pain wasn’t enough. If Bronn wasn’t there, she would have removed the brace and given herself something proper to focus on, but she could not show him even more weakness.

“Do you know how I started working for Tyrion?” Bronn asked eventually, his tone the exact same as it usually was. Alyssa shook her head. “I championed for him in a trial by combat. You’ve heard the phrase ‘rich as a Lannister’.” Alyssa snorted weakly. “Lysa Arryn chose the captain of the guards of the Eyrie, Ser Vardis Egan. I avoided his blows until he was exhausted, then I killed him.”

Of course he had. Trials of combat were to the death. They also marked Gregor as the most innocent of men.

“Ser Vardis did not last near as long as you did,” Bronn said.

“Ser Vardis is dead,” Alyssa said.

“When he was alive he was captain of the guards for one of the great castles,” Bronn said. _Do you flatter your whores too, and tell them stories?_ She did not want his flattery or his fake pity or his actual pity.

 _He’s not honourable, but honest,_ Alyssa reminded herself. _If not, who would trust him to kill for them._ Bronn had said something similar, but it had sounded very true. Now he was saying that he did not think she was weak, and she could see no sign of a lie on his face.

He was also not holding her into place, but she could trap him easily enough. _And he did not take his novelty fuck._ She had not stopped him continuing, then he had been the one to stop her. She almost asked him why, but it was a stupid question and she probably knew the answer anyway.

“What will you tell Tyrion?” she asked instead, managing to make her voice even. _Get the price high and give me a quarter._ It had been a stupid agreement then, and it was a stupid agreement now.

“I comforted you. Tyrion is getting plenty of comfort as well,” Bronn said.

“From you?” Alyssa said, playing along. He chuckled.

“No, not from me. But when men in general want comfort, they go whoring or drinking. Or both, if they have the coin for it, and Tyrion most certainly has coin,” Bronn said. That sounded true too. _Do not betray me,_ Alyssa thought, stupidly, as sellswords betrayed everybody eventually. Then she nodded.

Bronn left her not long after. When she went to sleep about an hour later, it was Bronn she dreamed of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we go back to Sansa. The plotline continues!
> 
> This was a harder chapter to write. Tell me what you think, I would like feedback.


	16. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa starts learning. So does Alyssa.

“Lord Tyrion said he wants to teach me how to be a queen,” Sansa blurted as Shae was combing through her hair. Shae paused her motion for a second before she continued. The motion soothed Sansa, but made her sad. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it was her mother behind her when she used to send the handmaidens away. But it was only Shae. Shae had become a friend to her, more than any of the other handmaidens she half-suspected belonged to Cersei, but Sansa would give almost anything to have it be her mother instead. It was selfish of her, she knew. If her mother was here, she would be a prisoner too.

“You will be queen,” Shae said. “Have you ever properly learned to be one?”

“I had lessons,” Sansa said, but none of the lessons had prepared her at all for coming to King’s Landing. Her courtesy was nothing more than a paper shield, but it was the only shield she had. _Robb will come,_ Sansa told herself, _Ser Dontos will take me away._

“Did any of your lessons mention the king?” Shae asked.

“I know how to be a good mother to his children,” Sansa said, Shae’s brushing motion no longer being enough to soothe her. Was that what Lord Tyrion was going to teach her? _He wants me to make peace with my brother,_ Sansa thought. Robb was winning.

Sansa realized her last thought was stupid. She did not think she would ever find herself hating or even disliking one of her children, even if the father was Joffrey. No matter how much the thought made bile threaten to rise at the back of her throat. If she wed Joffrey and bore him a child, what would it mean if Robb took the city? A child that was both Robb’s kin and Joffrey’s.

_I should have taken Lord Tyrion’s offer,_ Sansa thought suddenly. _I am the traitor’s daughter and the traitor’s sister. That alone makes me unworthy of a king. Joffrey himself has said it._ If she’d been able to convince Tyrion of that, she would be free of Joffrey, and she would seem loyal.

“Sansa,” Shae said, in front of her now. _Handmaidens are not meant to be so familiar,_ Sansa thought childishly, trying to distract herself. “Tyrion is a better man than you think he is. I truly do not think he means you harm with his offer.”

“How do you know that?” Sansa asked. Shae couldn’t know, and had no way of knowing. Shae did not know Lord Tyrion.

“I know men,” Shae said. “When you know enough men, you can tell the good ones from the bad. He is not one of the bad ones.”

Sansa sat in silence as Shae tied her hair up in the Southern style. _He is still a Lannister,_ Sansa thought.

“ _Lord_ Tyrion,” Sansa corrected belatedly. “It’s Lord Tyrion. You have to refer to him as such. You cannot be so improper.”

Shae chuckled behind her, although Sansa could not figure out why. Sansa did not know much about Shae. She knew Shae was from one of the Free Cities, although Shae had not said which one. Whatever Shae had been before, she had not been a handmaiden despite what she had claimed. At first, she’d simply had no idea what she was doing, and Sansa found herself having to tell her much.

The knock on the door came just as Shae was finishing, and Shae was the one to answer it. Tyrion’s shadow stood there, fully armoured with her face covered by her visor.

“You are early,” Shae said, and Sansa flinched.

“Who are you?” Alyssa demanded in a cold, low voice. Shae stood her ground and Sansa was truly frightened for her.

“I am Sansa’s handmaiden,” Shae said.

“You are no handmaiden,” Alyssa said. “Handmaidens are meek things.”

“She is my handmaiden,” Sansa said quickly, rushing over to them and standing between them. “She just forgets her place and her courtesies at times. Please do not harm her.”

“What are you?” Alyssa repeated, looking at Shae, and Sansa realized what a stupid position she was in. Alyssa was dangerous, and she was standing right in her path. The fury in Alyssa’s eyes had been truly terrifying, as had the emptiness. Sansa could not figure out which one frightened her more. _When she is furious, she might lose her temper and kill me. When not, she may kill me and think nothing of it._ She could not forget the cold calm way Alyssa had suggested to torture Meryn Trant.

“I could ask you the same,” Shae said. “They say you are Lord Tyrion’s whore, and that’s the only reason you are allowed to guard him.”

“They do not believe that to my face,” Alyssa said, stepping into the room and then aside so that the doorway was completely free. She gave a harsh nod at the doorway. “Go.” It was a truly cold order, but Shae looked like she was about to say something else.

“Please go, Shae,” Sansa said, almost begging, and Shae did leave after a pointed look at Alyssa. “I am truly sorry for Shae. I do not know what came over her.”

“She should learn her place,” Alyssa said. “She cannot threaten people bigger and stronger than her. She is unarmed. Might be she has a knife, but men have armour.” She knocked on her breastplate with a gauntleted hand and there was a clang of metal against metal. “A knife will not go through the breastplate. Gaps in the armour. Eyes, neck, joints, under the arms and behind the knees. His cock, if he gets it out. She would have to be fast, stab deep, and take him by surprise. She cannot do that if she talks back and threatens.”

“I will tell her,” Sansa said nervously. If Alyssa wanted Shae to know, she would have said it when Shae was still present, but she seemed to accept that answer.

“She has to know how to do it properly,” Alyssa said, looking directly at Sansa. It wasn’t a direct offer. Sansa wasn’t sure whether it even was an offer. Alyssa still sounded disinterested and almost bored. _It’s Lord Tyrion’s offer,_ Sansa thought. Alyssa was Lord Tyrion’s guard, but the more she thought about it the more it did not fit with what Lord Tyrion had already said. It was a trap. Perhaps it was not even Lord Tyrion’s. Or perhaps it was just a statement. “Or it will just be luck.”

“N-not everybody wants to kill,” Sansa said.

“They want to die less,” Alyssa said. “It is hard to kill a big armoured person with a small knife. She should run and hide if she can, submit if she must.”

“I shall tell her. I will not forget,” Sansa said, and that seemed to be an acceptable answer as well. It was very hard to tell, as Alyssa’s face was not visible and her voice gave nothing away. Alyssa gave her a small nod after a long pause, and stepped outside the door. Sansa rushed to catch up with her, and they walked in complete silence.

_Should I ask Lord Tyrion?_ Sansa wondered, but she could not be sure that it was his offer or even an offer at all. She did not want to kill anybody, or learn to kill anybody, but the more she thought of it the less certain she was in Ser Dontos’s ability to protect her.

“Thank you, Alyssa,” Sansa said when they reached Lord Tyrion’s solar. Alyssa nodded and pushed the door open. Sansa forced herself to smile at the dwarf and gracefully moving to stand behind the seat he had prepared for her, only sitting when he motioned at her to do so. He had placed additional pillows on the seat again, although sitting did not hurt as much as it had the previous day.

“Drink?” Lord Tyrion asked.

“No thank you, my lord, I am not thirsty,” Sansa said. It was better than saying it was too early for drink. Tyrion shrugged his lopsided shoulders and poured a drink for himself anyway.

“Tell me, Lady Sansa. What is a queen for?” Lord Tyrion asked her. She had expected a question of the sort and had her answer prepared. It was the same answer she had given Shae, except saying it made her feel sick to the stomach.

“I will bear Joffrey’s children gladly,” Sansa said, flinching when her voice shook slightly.

“You no longer look up to Cersei, I hope,” Tyrion said. “I mean, I truly hope. I look up to Cersei, but only because she is so much taller than me, and you do not have that excuse. She tried to make Joffrey the puppet king with her the regent, and went about it by letting little babes be murdered, generally not being able to control Joffrey at all, and not caring what anybody else thinks about her. As a result, everybody hates her.” It was definitely a trap.

“I do not understand, my lord,” Sansa said, wracking her brain to remember what she had once stupidly believed Cersei was, before her father had been executed. “Queen Cersei has treated me well. She is beautiful and graceful and everything a queen should be.”

“Cersei’s spies cannot hear you here,” Tyrion said, drinking. Tyrion himself was a Lannister, so it did not matter if anybody else overheard. “You must remember that I know my sister. I know exactly how nice she can be, and exactly how nice she isn’t. What is a queen for?”

“A queen is for her people,” Sansa answered. “She has to make sacrifices for them and share their burdens.”

Tyrion chuckled. “Does Cersei do that?”

“She does for _some_ of her people,” Sansa said, thinking about Joffrey in particular. In Cersei’s eyes, Sansa was pretty sure Joffrey could do no wrong. “She cannot do it for all of them. Some of them are traitors, at war against her.”

“Good answer,” Tyrion said, chuckling again, and Sansa worried she had said something wrong. There was a look in his mismatched eyes, like he was looking at her in a new way. He was a Lannister; she could not forget that.

 

The future queen did not try to make conversation when Alyssa returned her to her room, and Alyssa did not speak. She just obediently dropped her off, her fingers drifting to the blades at her belt. There was no use giving Sansa a knife if she could not use it, when there was a likelihood it could be discovered.

_It will just be luck, if she fights a man,_ Alyssa thought. That would be true if she had no training or had been trained for a year. Sansa Stark was tall for a woman, but far too slight to have any chance of overpowering anybody. Even peasant men, weakened from hunger, would be able to hold her down and fuck her.

_Sansa Stark is nothing to me,_ Alyssa told herself again, but that was a lie. She was weak and this was just further proof. As foolish as it was, she cared. _I care for Sansa Stark and I cannot even fuck a sellsword._ Bronn had not told Tyrion as far as she could tell, and he did not think her weak, but he had seen far too much of her weakness. _I care for a highborn near as high as can be and a sellsword who will just betray me._ Alyssa sighed. _Perhaps he won’t betray me. Perhaps he will die first._

She was the stupidest of fools if she believed otherwise. He had been warm when he had held her, and he had wrapped the blanket around her so that she had no longer been as exposed. There was some stupid part of her that seemed to believe his kindness came without a price, that he actually cared about her. Just because he had not yet asked for a price did not mean he would not.

_I feel nothing,_ she told herself again, focussing herself once more. Perhaps she could tell Sansa where to aim and speed up her reactions, but the future queen would have to be vicious. Sansa just did not have that viciousness to her.

She knocked on the door, opened it slowly, then sat beside Tyrion. Tyrion looked at her, and Alyssa flicked her visor up. He always asked that of her if she did not do that automatically.

“Sansa knows all the right words,” he told her, frowning. She nodded, not feeling a thing. “Did she speak to you?”

“She is afraid of me,” Alyssa just said. That had been no different, although Sansa had been courteous as always. Sansa’s handmaiden had surprised her though. The woman had been extremely stupid, not frightened at all. Alyssa would have been able to snap her slender neck with little difficulty without ever having to draw a weapon. _Shae._ “Who is Shae?”

Tyrion looked up at her, his expression not giving anything away, but Alyssa was sure that Tyrion would know who that was. There were no secrets in the Red Keep. Tyrion would know who Sansa’s handmaidens were, especially as he wanted to keep her safe.

“She is one of yours,” Alyssa guessed. She could not be sure, but something about Tyrion’s expression was different to what it would have been had she mentioned a stranger. It would not have been as guarded.

“Bronn found her,” Tyrion said. “But yes, she is one of mine.” _Perhaps Shae does not talk back too all armoured knights. Just those that are women and she knows will not hurt her._

“Sansa needs a better guard than her,” Alyssa said half seriously, like so many of the comments she had heard when Bronn and Tyrion discussed things. The words felt stupid in her mouth, but Tyrion smiled at her.

“Shae seems to be as close to a guard as Sansa will accept at the moment,” Tyrion said, then his eyes fixed directly on her. “I offered you to her as a guard. She described you as cold.” That did not surprise her, except for the part where it was honest and not prettily worded. “Lady Sansa is surrounded by enemies. She needs somebody who actually cares for her, and does not just want to use her for their own gain.”

“You want me to lie,” Alyssa said. He could not think her weak, but he gave her a look like her words were the most obvious lie he had ever heard. Alyssa swallowed, took a few breaths and clenched her fist. “A guard cannot be weak.”

“You are not weak,” Tyrion said seriously, looking into her eyes and pinning her with his gaze. She truly believed his words to be the truth. _Bronn did not tell,_ she decided. If not, Tyrion would know her weakness. “And helping Sansa will not make you weak.”

_You are wrong,_ she almost said, but she swallowed the words. Tyrion was a smart man.

Or he was lying, manipulating her because he did not want the weak guard for himself. She pushed that thought out of her mind, clenching her fist. She would have wanted somebody strong to protect her, but King Waters was a weak whiny little cunt.

“I will try,” Alyssa said. It was not like Gregor could kill her more than once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Shae and Alyssa meet! Shae *might* have heard those rumours about Alyssa being Tyrion's whore, and while Tyrion would already have told her how utterly ridiculous that rumour is Shae still likes to double check...
> 
> Tell me what you think. I love getting feedback on what I write. :)


	17. Wildfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I do not own any of the lines directly from the show. Or anything at all really, as this is a fanfiction.

“Who is the most pathetic knight you’ve ever seen?” Bronn asked, sounding almost bored as he glanced at the litter Tyrion was sharing with his Lannister cousin. Alyssa could hear them speaking, but was not quite able to make out the words.

“Some cunt,” Alyssa said absently. _Stag_ , she thought, if she had to put coin on it.

“You need to give me more than that,” Bronn said, and Alyssa sighed. He could be persistent and annoying, but in the way that made her want to yield and play along instead of wanting to kill him. “I once went into battle with a knight who, as soon as he saw the enemy, pissed himself and shat himself then ran away.” He paused. “Alright, perhaps I did not quite go into battle with him.”

Alyssa bit her lip to stop herself from laughing, but a snort still escaped. Bronn smirked at her reaction, somehow looking sort of proud of himself.

“I met a _knight_ who did not own a sword or a horse or armour,” Alyssa said, her voice coming out a bit too cold. “But he said he was a knight.” _He could not take a beating._ She did not know the fake knight’s name, but she remembered his face. Raff had been all polite and thrown him a sword at least, even if she had not let him keep it in his hand for more than a moment. By the time he’d been on the ground, weeping and stinking of wine and blood and piss, opening his throat had been a mercy.

“I met a man who won his knighthood in a game of cyvasse,” Bronn said. She gave him a look. “I was working for a knight who had booked passage to Braavos on a trading vessel. One night, he and the merchant’s son got really drunk and played a game of cyvasse. The merchant’s son had never fought anybody in his life.”

“You didn’t get a knighthood?” she asked.

“I was too busy fucking the merchant’s daughter,” Bronn said, shrugging. “After that, the knight sobered and decided that a hangover and seasickness did not go together.”

“You should have kept him drunk,” Alyssa suggested. Bronn was about to respond, but the curtains of the litter were pushed open. Lancel Lannister almost climbed out, but then tripped and sprawled over the ground.

“Oh, Lancel, tell my friends to please kill you if anything should happen to me,” Tyrion said.

“Please kill me if anything should happen to Lord Tyrion,” Lancel Lannister said, scrambling to his feet. Alyssa snorted. He was pathetic and weak. For a moment, he reminded her of King Waters, not in his cruelty but for the way he cowered in front of the Imp.

“It will be my pleasure,” Bronn said, and Lancel ran off. Bronn turned to her, motioning towards the direction Lancel had run off in. “Ser Lancel.”

Then she was laughing and Bronn started laughing as well, likely also thinking about where Ser Lancel would rank on the list of most pathetic knights.

“How did he become a knight?” Alyssa asked Bronn in a low voice. Whatever else Lancel was, he was still a Lannister. _He is rich,_ Alyssa thought. _And male._ That was enough for somebody to knight him if he wanted.

“He’s fucking the queen,” Bronn said, and Alyssa bit her lip so she did not start laughing again.

 _I heard Jaime. Perhaps it was Lancel,_ she thought, which was just a ridiculous thought. If Joffrey’s father actually was King Robert, Robert had been a great warrior, strong enough to kill Prince Rhaegar and win the throne. If Joffrey’s father actually was Jaime, Jaime was near the best sword fighter in the realm. If Lancel was the father, it would explain how Joffrey was so _weak._

Tyrion looked at both of them, looking amused and shaking his head. He got out of the litter far more successfully than Lancel, and walked ahead. She and Bronn followed him on either side, and she made herself focus on her task again, a small smile still on her face. A smile that really should not be on her face, because the only thing about the fate of this city that was uncertain was whether it was the wolf or the stag who would break down the walls first. _Stannis Baratheon managed to kill his brother in just a_ few days _and claimed his entire fucking army._ The Hound truly was pathetic.There were plenty of other things in the world to hate.

 _The stag,_ Alyssa thought again, for the wolf was facing Lord Tywin and most of the Lannister armies. The stag was closer. Here there were drunken goldcloaks she could easily enough steal swords from, a starving population that hated the king and would only become more starving and hate him more, and some knights that hopefully were not all as pathetic as Lancel Lannister. _King Waters too._ He would be no asset, but she supposed he could fuck it up worse.

‘Do you have a plan?’ she almost asked Tyrion, but the longer she spent with him the more she learned him. She learned his mannerisms and his expressions, and watched him when he ate and drank. If he had a plan, he would not currently be making one. He would be preparing, not searching, surely.

And she was a craven as well as stupid, as she did not ask to confirm her suspicions. Tyrion Lannister was the smartest man she had ever met. If he did not have a plan, and a plan was needed, the city would fall. _That’s what war is,_ Alyssa thought, and that she could swallow more easily as both sides had swords. She would have been far safer in the Riverlands though.

 

It was the Hound she watched when she was in the stables, tending to his horse that hated her exactly as much as he did. The stable boys would not tend that horse, and were mostly terrified to go near. It was the type of horse that could ride armoured men down with little difficulty.

When she had tried to feed it, it had bitten at her gauntleted had. She had yanked her hand back. A kindness, perhaps, as horses could not bite through metal. It had then reared up and she had taken a step back, her bastard sword in her hand before she even realized she had drawn it. Then she had found a smirk growing on her face. It was a magnificent horse. No such horse should be allowed to chase her. It was a massive horse. Horses became food when people outside starved.

 _Wouldn’t that be the nicest thing the Hound has ever done?_ Alyssa had thought. It would likely be the first time the Hound had helped the smallfolk instead of killing them. Any lack of brutality he showed her was because he feared Gregor or perhaps even her slightly.

She watched the Hound with his horse, knowing that she ought to be ignoring him. He had not approached her again, or acknowledged her when they passed each other. She ignored him as well, and that was as close to a truce as she’d be getting with him.

 _I am Gregor’s daughter. That is all he sees me as._ She was the enemy in his eyes. If he thought she was the enemy, she’d be a fool to think him anything but the same.

Enemies weren’t to be goaded. Enemies weren’t to be threatened, or to be spoken to more than the minimum. For an enemy, she watched them, found their weaknesses and exploited them. The Hound was a far better fighter than she was, but she had never seen him fight.

She was hardly going to find a weakness watching him take care of his horse, except for the fact that he seemed to care for his horse. Or at least, neither he nor the horse hated one another as much as they seemed to hate everything else.

She could feel the Hound’s glared on her, but she did not acknowledge him. She continued watching him for a long moment, waiting to see if he would approach her, and when he did not she walked away. _He is not going to kill me,_ Alyssa assessed. That was as good as she could expect. The Hound was different enough from Gregor that she was pretty sure he would not kill her in a fit of temper, unless she very stupidly got in the way.

Alyssa forced herself to stop thinking about the Hound. She should fear him more than she did, she knew, but in truth she actually did feeling nothing now. He was just an enemy she cared nothing for.

 _I cannot flee,_ Alyssa thought. The armies were closing in and she was so fucking trapped. She clenched her fist tightly. Fuck, she was not happy with whatever truce she had with the Hound. If he wouldn’t kill her on sight, she would have wanted her father to be here. He could probably take a quarter of Stannis’s army all by himself. If there was a siege, he would be able to break through.  

There would be a siege no doubt. If he broke through in truth, she would be trapped and he would be coming for her.

One person could not fight an army, but one person could avoid it. _I cannot go North._ Not that she would want to. _The Westerlands, the Riverlands. Crownlands._ Perhaps the Vale. The Vale was not at war, nor was Dorne. She’d have to look at a map to see which one was easier to get to, but she looked too much like Gregor to be safe in Dorne. Not that she had any castle to shelter in no matter where she went. No, she would figure it out. She had a horse, she could flee.

For now she would get coin. Maybe she was weak, but she would survive. Only a complete fool would stay in a city that was going to fall.

 

“Only a fool would fuck with a demon,” Alyssa said in a cold low voice after Tyrion had repeated ‘demon monkey’ for the second time. He seemed upset by the assessment, more so than she had been expecting. Perhaps, despite all her attempts to learn him and his attempts to make conversation with her, she still did not know him all that very well.  _He’s a Lannister. I should only know him enough to work for him._

“I haven’t been called a monkey before,” Tyrion said as lightly as he could. “It’s the ‘monkey’ that makes all the difference.” Bronn was the one who answered him then.

Alyssa did not know much about wildfire. If you touched it, she had heard, you were lucky you lost your arm. If not, it devoured you. It was what Mad King Aerys had used to burn people alive. The weapon of the Mad King.

‘King Joffrey has wildfire?’ Alyssa had asked, surprised that she had been able to keep her voice even. Waters was king too. If he decided somebody was to be burned to death, nobody would stop him, and she supposed wildfire was faster. That meant he would take his amusement out on more people, and he could be more destructive.

‘Not quite that bad,’ Tyrion had said. ‘My sweet sister has it. She does not set people on fire for fun, which is one of the few good things I can say about her. If we gave Joffrey wildfire to play with, we would no longer have King’s Landing. He would have burnt it all.’

‘How much do you have?’ Alyssa had asked.

‘I haven’t got it yet,’ Tyrion had said, and she had given him a look. He would get it. When he had noticed her look, he had smiled at her warmly.

The pyromancer was an old man, with white hair and a white beard, easily old enough to have been one of the Mad King's creatures. She stared at him, trying to figure him out, but his face did not give much away. He was not surprised to see Tyrion, but he looked at both her and Bronn in an extended way. Tyrion introduced them both in turn at the pyromancer's request. Tyrion nodded at her, and she removed her helm, and the pyromancer seemed more relaxed as soon as she did. _Nothing is a secret in the Red Keep,_ she thought, taking a breath. Having a wider field of vision made it far easier to see in the dark tunnel.

At the end of the short dark tunnel they entered a small and still dimly lit room. The pyromancer produced a small see-through jar containing a green liquid that almost seemed to glow, handing it to Tyrion with a warning to be careful.

“I remember reading an old sailors' proverb. ‘Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off,’” Tyrion said. He tilted the jar slightly in his hand, looking at it closely.

“Oh, I have not conducted this experiment. It could well be true. The substance burns so hot, it melts wood, stone, even steel, and, of course, flesh. The substance burns so hot; it melts flesh like tallow. After the dragons died, wildfire was the key to the Targaryen power,” the pyromancer said, taking the jar back and setting it down. Bronn did not look impressed at all, and he rolled his eyes.

“My companion takes issue,” Tyrion said.

“If I could tell you how many crazy old men I've seen pushing carts around army camps making grand claims about jars full of pig shit,” Bronn said. The pyromancer looked offended, and Bronn smirked. “No offense meant.”

“Our order does not deal in pig shit,” the pyromancer said. “The substance is fire given form. And we have been perfecting it since the days of Maegor.”

 _Fire already has a form,_ Alyssa thought, but did not speak. If she filled that jar with oil, it would light too, and burn through wood and flesh easily enough. But if it actually was wildfire, and she had no real reason to believe it wasn’t, she would not make an enemy of the man who made it. She took the pyromancer in. 

“Demonstrate,” Alyssa suggested. He did not seem the type to use her suggestion as permission to test it on her, and even if he wanted to he was an old man and she was stronger than he was.  

“That would not be wise… my lady,” the pyromancer said, taking a long moment before deciding on the courtesy although it sounded very forced. “The substance is truly dangerous. Demonstrations are not something to be taken lightly.” She gave him a nod, not pushing it. It truly was something that needed to be tested.

 _Meryn Trant,_ was her first thought, but she pushed it away as he was Kingsguard. She already knew the flame would burn flesh, so it was truly metal that had to be tested. If it could melt metal it could melt armour easily. _Melt a sword._ Normal fire would melt a sword if given time.

“What do you do with it?” Tyrion just asked, giving her a look.

“The jars are put in catapults and flung at the enemy,” the pyromancer said.

“How much do you have?” Tyrion asked. The pyromancer grabbed a lantern and pulled a door open, and Alyssa fell into step behind Tyrion again.

“If you could get real soldiers to man the catapults, then maybe you'd hit your target one time in ten, but all the real soldiers are in the Riverlands with your father,” Bronn said as they were walking.

“My lord, this man is insulting,” the pyromancer said.

“I don't know if you've ever seen a battle, old man, but things can get a bit messy,” Bronn said. “'Cause when we're flinging things at Stannis, he's flinging them right back at us. Men die, men shit themselves, men run, which means pots falling, which means fire inside the walls, which means the poor cunts trying to defend the city end up burning it down.”

“How do you put it out?” Alyssa asked, and the look the pyromancer gave her almost made her laugh. He looked at her like she was the biggest fool he had ever met.

“It cannot be put out,” he scowled at her. “It burns until it is no more. Even here, we can only hope to contain it.”

“We are trying to burn a fleet, not a castle,” Alyssa said. _You play with fire, you get burnt._ Wasn’t that another old proverb, one of those Maester Tomas was fond of. The words had always been far too pointed for her liking, and she had given him a look.

‘I play with fire, _everybody_ burns,’ Alyssa had eventually responded, because if she was going to burn others would burn with her. It still seemed like a fucking stupid thing to do though as there were ways of killing people that did not involve her dying.

This seemed like a brilliant idea, if Tyrion meant to kill himself and Stannis and leave Robb Stark a burned out city containing the burned ashes that were once his sister. He’d have a difficult time separating those from all the other ashes. If a controlled demonstration was too dangerous to be considered, and the flame could not be put out, it was too fucking dangerous to mess with it at all.  _Everything burns and everything dies._ She hummed the Riverlands Song silently under her breath.

They walked further along a dark corridor with only the lantern to guide them. The old man seemed to know where he was going though. There was a door at the end.

“We have been working tirelessly, day and night, ever since your royal sister commanded us to do so,” the pyromancer was saying, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Our present count stands at 7,811. Enough to burn Stannis Baratheon's fleet and armies both.”

“This is a shit idea,” Bronn said. Alyssa stood behind him and looked through the large door. The jar had been tiny. This went on as far as the eye could see, and probably far further as most of the cavernous room was hidden in darkness. Suddenly Alyssa felt very afraid.

This was all beneath the city. A fire that, if set, could not be put out.

 _There will be nothing for the flies to eat,_ Alyssa thought. _The crows will dine on ashes. The stone will melt and the fish will take King’s Landing._ The gods would be laughing. After the burning of the Riverlands, House Tully would take King’s Landing.

 _One spark and I could melt this city,_ Alyssa thought, clenching her fist. _One spark and I die. One spark and everybody dies. When I play with fire,_ everybody _burns._ She had never felt more powerful than when she looked out at the wildfire in front of her.

She barely heard Tyrion when he claimed the wildfire for himself, like she had always known he would. Stannis would not take this city, she was certain now. If Tyrion could not defend it, and this was wildfire in truth, there would be no city to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't as well edited as usual, but I am going on holiday tomorrow and I wanted to get a chapter up. 
> 
> I might edit this chapter and add more details in later. 
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	18. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey is not happy Tyrion is playing with his favourite toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, Joffrey is his own warning.

Sandor was going to kill the Imp. It was the Imp’s fault. He hid Sansa away for several hours each day, stopping Joffrey from having access to his favourite toy. Whenever the Imp was near, Joffrey could not touch Sansa, but the Imp was not always near. The Imp did not always watch her.

‘Collect my betrothed, dog. I’m going to show her the dungeon they kept her father in,’ Joffrey had said, a sadistic gleam in his eyes. Sandor had obeyed like the good dog he was, bringing the little bird from her gilded cage into a far worse one to find Joffrey waiting and Meryn fucking Trant by his side. Even the bird had stopped her chirping as soon as she had figured out where they were going, utter terror replacing mere fear in her eyes.

‘Please, ser, I love the king. I would never do anything to harm him. Whatever my brother…’ Sansa had said, panicked, and her words had sent a sort of pain through him.

‘Stop your chirping,’ he had snarled at her, and she actually had stopped. The deeper they went, the quieter she was. Even her breathing had almost been silent by the time they had reached Joffrey, though oddly she had started clinging to his arm. The dungeons were almost completely dark, with only distant torches lighting them, and they stank heavily of rotting corpses. When they had arrived at her father’s former cell, he had shaken her off him. Joffrey could not see her clinging to him.

And now she was in front of Joffrey, Meryn Trant having forced her to her knees in the dirt. This cell was more well-lit, and several torches flickered on one of the walls.

“Your father lay right there,” Joffrey said, pointing at the area she was kneeling. “He would have died in here slowly, had I let him. Instead, I gave him mercy, like you asked.” The little bird looked to be fighting off tears then. Her lip wobbled, but she stared Joffrey down.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Sansa said.

“Will anybody ask for mercy for you?” Joffrey asked next. “We feed you, we give you water. You will not be harmed, so Mother should be happy. This is a room fit for a traitor.” Sandor felt colder with every word Joffrey spoke, and his fingers twitched around his sword to stop him from tearing Joffrey’s head off. Ser Meryn was nothing. He could drag Sansa with him, saying he was running an errand for the king, and take her to the stables. There was no time to pack, but surely he would be able to get out of the city walls before they realized the king was dead. Joffrey had not told anybody but him and Meryn that he was down here, and the dungeons would not be the first place they would look for the king. Sandor shook his head as if to shake the thoughts away, his fingers tightening around his sword even more.

“I am not a traitor,” Sansa said, her eyes widening in terror. “Whatever my brother has done, I had no part in it.”

“Her kingly brother hears of this…” Sandor started.

“Quiet, dog!” Joffrey said, his face twisting into annoyance at having been interrupted. “Her traitor brother already has my uncle in a cell, I am sure.”

“A highborn girl would die in these cells,” Sandor said. “Then you have no Starks.” Joffrey almost let out a whine, a sound a toddler would make when something did not go his way.

“But you are a traitor. You are mine, not my Imp uncle’s!” Joffrey said, looking at Sansa kneeling in front of him. Suddenly she looked like she understood.

“Your uncle is simply making sure I am a good queen to you,” Sansa said evenly. Sandor could hear her fear though, and the little cunt of a king he was guarding no doubt did as well. “I thought it had been done with your leave. It is all for you, your Grace.”

“You will never be a good queen for me,” Joffrey said. “Perhaps I should give you to him. Strip you of all titles and let you give my uncle dwarf bastards.” He looked thoughtful. _He has no idea which fucking punishment he prefers,_ Sandor realized. Sansa’s face was a mask. “Do you want that?!”

“If it is your will,” Sansa said. “But it will always be you I love.”

“You _are_ stupid,” Joffrey said. Sandor knew what Joffrey was going to order before he did, because it happened too many times before. He was not going to drag the little bird down into the dungeons and let her fly back up to her gilded cage without plucking a few feathers. “But you are _mine._ Ser Meryn.”

Sansa let out a winded gasp of pain as Meryn struck her in the ribs, and she crumbled to the ground. Her small hands clutched her side and she wheezed out breaths painfully. Meryn drew his sword, striking her back with the flat of his sword. Sandor counted each of the strikes. For each one, he would strike Meryn twice in the training yard, but after the second strike Sandor knew he would not keep to that. He would strike Ser Meryn until he was a whimpering mess on the ground.

“Stop, please, ser,” Sansa gasped out, and Meryn’s response was to strike her again. Sansa screeched in pain, crumbling forwards, and Joffrey could no longer contain his laughter. The next strike hit her at the wrong angle. The back of her dress started staining a deep red, and Sansa let out a cry. She was already on the ground. Her fingers dug into the dirt, and Sandor could see her body shake. It took all of his energy in order to remain still, to not run Meryn through. He was fucking loyal, fucking obedient, guarding Joffrey as he laughed at the pain he inflicted on Sansa.

“Take her back to her room, dog,” Joffrey ordered, and Sandor obeyed. Sansa was wheezing when he approached her, and her eyes were red with tears. The wetness caused dust to stick to her cheeks. Sandor pulled her to her feet, not near mindful enough of her injuries as she let out a hiss that resulted in another cackle from Joffrey. Sandor snarled. He hurt the little bird, just like Meryn did, at Joffrey’s fucking bidding. He dragged her behind him and at first she whimpered with every step, although she bit her lip and refused to meet his gaze when he looked at her. _Of course she does. You hurt her like all the rest, you are hurting her now. Of course she cannot bear to look._ His face would just be another added torment.

As soon as Joffrey could no longer see them, Sandor plucked her up and carried her, although he knew she would not want to be close. She was trying her best to remain silent, but every movement caused her too much pain. Sandor had no idea how bad the cut on her back was, and he would not truly be able to tell unless he stripped her. By the sounds of her breathing, some of her ribs were bruised or broken. He would get her a master, he decided suddenly. Maesters were cunts, and they would all send her back to Joffrey no doubt injuries and all, tutting and blabbering on about how the fault was all hers, but she did need tending to.

 

Sansa was trying her very best not to weep, but tears were streaming from her eyes. _Father lay there._ The thought was repeating in her head, even with the pain. She could not imagine being confined to such a dungeon. He had been injured too, his leg… Sansa closed her eyes again and saw his head on the spike, Joffrey making her look at it. The Hound had saved her then, or she would have tried to push Joffrey from the battlements. The Hound had saved her again now. Even if Lord Tyrion had come to her rescue eventually, Joffrey would have left her there. Ser Dontos would never have found her.

“Nearly there, little bird,” Sandor Clegane said, and she looked up at his face. His lip was twitching on the burned side and pulled back into a grimace on the other. There was such fury in his eyes that she could barely look at them, but it was him who would not meet her eyes. She must look a mess, crying, with the dirt on her face and blood staining her back. There was too much blood. What if it scarred? She did not want to forever bear marks of Joffrey’s cruelty, to be reminded of it constantly as it was right there on her body.

The pain was almost too much to bear. She could not breathe without it feeling like she was being stabbed in the ribs. It was silly of her, she knew, to worry about scars. The Hound had it so much worse, it was selfish to be so worried about a mark that would hopefully be barely visible. But a woman could not have scars. Having scars was not the same as no longer being a maiden, but she would still be slightly less, slightly ruined.

It took too long, an eternity before she finally reached her room. The bed met her suddenly, and then she was sobbing into the sheets, ungainly sobs. She did not hear the door slam, but when she looked up the Hound was gone and she could not imagine him closing the door gently. That made her weep more, because now she was alone and she had wanted him to stay.

The door was pushed open perhaps two minutes later, but it was Shae and not Sandor. Shae stopped in the doorway, frozen for a moment before shutting the door behind her and rushing over.

“I hate him,” Sansa wept, because it was Shae and Shae already knew she hated Joffrey. Hate seemed like too nice a word.

“You cannot say that,” Shae warned, but it was a gentle warning. “You never know who might hear.” Shae brought a cloth to Sansa’s face, wiping away some of the tears and dirt. “I’m sorry Sansa, but the wound on your back has to be cleaned. Are you hurting anywhere else?”

Sansa nodded, taking another painful breath. “My ribs.”

“I will get you a maester,” Shae said, and Sansa thanked her.

“It’s not deep,” Shae said when she started cleaning out the wound. Her fingers moved swiftly and surely. She had done it before, Sansa was sure. Sansa almost asked if her back would scar, but she was afraid of the answer.

_Don’t leave,_ Sansa almost begged when Shae left to collect a maester. Instead she asked Shae to get the Hound’s cloak for her, and ignoring the funny look Shae was sending her she wrapped it tightly around herself. It had stopped smelling of the Hound, she noticed, but it still brought her comfort. She had not even noticed it had smelled of the Hound before it had stopped, and now smelled more strongly of her own soap and perfume.

Shae returned with a maester far sooner than Sansa had been expecting, and Sansa managed to move herself enough to fold the cloak under her pillow.

“The Hound had already sent for a maester,” Shae informed her, and Shae remained by her side as the maester tended to the wounds properly and told her to rest. Apparently her ribs were bruised but not broken. The maester looked at her apologetically the entire time, but did not say a single word about her state or about Joffrey, but instead muttered something about Queen Rhaella. He was an older man, with a lined face and no hair save for grey stubble that was almost a beard. Joffrey had told her the stories about all of the Targaryens, back when she’d still believed he was her perfect prince. When the Mad King had got madder, he had burned people alive then abused Queen Rhaella badly enough that her screams could be heard all through the Red Keep.

‘How awful,’ Sansa had said, but she had still enjoyed the sound of his voice as he spoke. Now, when she thought about it, Joffrey had enjoyed that story. There had been an amused gleam in his eyes. She had thought nothing of it then.

Sansa half wished that the maester had spoken and not muttered, so she would have an idea what he had said about Queen Rhaella. But he had not said a single word about her or Joffrey, that was for certain.

“Thank you,” Sansa told the maester as he left, and she vowed to thank the Hound as well and try to find a way to make him take her thanks.

Shae remained with her for the night, and Sansa felt safer for her presence. Shae was always so certain of herself, although Alyssa’s words rang in her head and Sansa found herself worried. Would Shae be able to defend herself if she spoke the wrong way to the wrong people? There were no true knights in King’s Landing, if at all. _Ser Rodrik was a true knight,_ Sansa thought, but she had not seen Ser Rodrik since she had believed Joffrey was a true prince.

The dreamwine helped her sleep, but even in her dreams her thoughts and her fears did not escape her. She dreamed of her father’s death, she dreamed of Joffrey, and of Robb at war. In one dream, Robb was slain, and she could swear she heard Lady howl. It was a mournful howl, definitely Lady’s, as she could never mistake the howl of her direwolf for the howl of any other. Joffrey forced her to look up at the heads again, except this time her entire family was up there next to her father, even little Rickon. She was imprisoned with her thoughts, the dreamwine not letting her wake, and when she finally did wake she was so relieved that she started weeping anew. Except that was not true, because Tyrion’s shadow would come and then she would be forced to go to Tyrion and Joffrey would punish her for it and not him. The maester had given her some more pain medication, which she took gratefully, and it dulled the pain enough that it was less than it had been the previous day.

When Alyssa knocked on the door, Sansa felt utterly terrified. She would have to go to Lord Tyrion then Joffrey would hurt her again, and it was not like she could refuse. Alyssa would be able to drag her with little difficulty. Shae opened the door, and Alyssa pushed her aside as if she was nothing, walking up to Sansa instead.

“The maester said she is to remain in her bed,” Shae said, and Alyssa ignored her completely. It was terrifying, and Sansa could not move. Alyssa flicked her visor up, and there was no surprise in her eyes. Somebody had told her.

“I will never do you true harm,” Alyssa said, a statement despite the fact her eyes were the most furious Sansa had ever seen them. “If I lost my temper at Gregor, he would lose his temper at me. If I lost my temper at his men, he might take it personal. I am better off with you alive. That is all you need.” The coldness in her tone had shifted into bitter fury, before she seemed to swallow it. “Do you believe me?”

There was no warmth to her at all. There was enough fury that Sansa could not be certain. Alyssa would not harm her… by accident. Unless it benefitted her. Perhaps it was stupid of her, but Sansa thought Alyssa did care, sometimes. Each time over the past few days when Alyssa had collected her, Alyssa had spoken to her with some emotion in her voice, and when she did that she had looked almost lost. She was never as frightening when she was like that, and at those points Sansa perhaps stupidly believed what Tyrion had said and that Alyssa understood. Instead, now Sansa was just getting coldness.

“I-I believe you,” Sansa stammered out, and Alyssa left without saying another word. Sansa was uncertain why she had come at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I’m going to be honest here and admit that I am not getting that much inspiration for this story at the moment. I suddenly got a random idea about Arya in Dorne, because let’s face it Arya would do well there. And so I wrote two chapters, about the length of one of these chapters. 
> 
> In one week, for a 2000-ish word story, I got twice as many bookmarks, more kudos, three times as many subscriptions and more reviewers than I got for this story in almost six months. I get that this story is (far) more niche, and I am happy with how many kudos etc. I got for the other story, but that does not stop me being slightly upset about this one. I did get one kudos for this one in the time it took me to get seventy for the other, but there was no extra subscription for that, and if I kudos an incomplete story without subscribing that means that I kudosed an early chapter then decided I did not like the story part way in. But I could be wrong there.
> 
> Even with the subscriptions, I have no idea if all the people who have subscribed are actually still reading so I have no idea how many readers I actually have on this. (Hits as far as I can tell only show how many people have clicked on the story. It truly does not account for the people who read the first chapter and thought ‘bye-bye’ without even going on the next). 
> 
> That said, thanks to SnowWhiteKnight and MadisontheSpoon13, (especially SnowWhiteKnight) as they are the only ones really keeping this story going right now. :)
> 
> Tell me what you think.


	19. Family of Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is confined to her room. Alyssa does not take the situation well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exam results are in (as of a few days ago). I did well. Happy!
> 
> Now, for a possibly slightly depressing chapter... (you've got this far through this fic, you know the drill by now). But it has Sandor and Sansa...

Sansa was surprised when Myrcella came to her midmorning, Ser Arys Oakheart following several steps behind.

“You may leave me, ser,” Myrcella said, although her voice trembled slightly. “Sansa will not harm me…” And it felt like Myrcella had cut off abruptly, like there was something else she wished to say. As if Sansa _could_ harm her. It hurt her to move. Even breathing pained her, although slightly less, though that could have been because of the pain medication she had been given.

Ser Arys looked at her and declined his head as if in apology, then left them. _Perhaps he is truly sorry,_ Sansa thought, but she could not find it in herself to acknowledge his apology. Out of all the Kingsguard, he was the only one who had beaten her as softly as he dared, and although she knew he could not have refused she also knew that the Hound had not beaten her at all.

As soon as the door closed, Myrcella rushed over to her.

“I am so sorry,” Myrcella said, her eyes slightly wet with unshed tears. “Joff… he…” She tried again. “I am so sorry for what he did to you. What he’s going to do to you. I’m sorry.” Then Sansa was crying, because even though Myrcella was a Lannister she was also a girl of eleven and had been nothing but nice to her. Her tone was completely genuine.

 _You will be away from Joffrey soon,_ Sansa almost said, but did not. In just over a week Myrcella would get on a ship that would take her to Dorne, where she was to be betrothed to Trystane Martell. It was a silly thought, but if there was one good thing that came out of Myrcella leaving her entire family and the place she had grown up to go down south to a land that was foreign to her, it would be no longer having to be with Joffrey.

“I will miss you,” Sansa said, and that was the most genuine thing she had said to a Lannister since she’d believed Joffrey was the prince of her dreams. “I hope you find happiness in Dorne.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” Myrcella said. Myrcella did not stay long, and she looked apologetic again as she left. “Mother wants to spend as much time with me as she can before I go. I know what she is to you, but to me she is just my mother.”

Sansa felt tears come to her eyes, but she forced herself to blink them away. She and her mother had always had a special relationship, more so than Mother and Arya. Mother would come to her room to comb her hair, and when she did she would tell Sansa stories about her own childhood in the Riverlands, about her grandparents and her aunt Lysa and her uncle Edmure. Sansa had never met any of them, but from the stories she could almost believe that she had. Mother would sew her dresses specifically, and just after her tenth nameday Mother had said that her stitches were good enough and that Sansa could now sew her a dress. Sansa had been so happy, and she knew now that it wasn’t her best work, but Mother had still worn that dress proudly just before Sansa had left Winterfell. Mother would also speak to her about her flowering, what would happen when she became a woman, and they would compare men she could be betrothed to. Now she wished she would never flower. If she was barren, she would not have to bear Joffrey’s children. She would not be forced into another marriage with another man who could be another Joffrey, although she did not see anybody being quite as bad.

Sansa could not begrudge such a relationship, even if it was with somebody like Cersei. Cersei was a different person with her children, and while it had made Joffrey it had also made Myrcella and Tommen who were both sweet.

When Myrcella left, Ser Arys left with her, and that left only Ser Mandon guarding her door. There was always at least one member of the Kingsguard guarding her now, but she was sure it was to stop her leaving rather than to stop anybody else hurting her. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn would guard her together, drinking and talking loudly to each other. They would not even let Shae back, when Shae went out to get her food or clean out her bedpan, and Sansa would find herself having to stay hungry for several hours until the two of them ran out of ale and one of them would go off to fetch another member of the Kingsguard to change their shift. It frightened her, having them outside her door. Sansa stupidly wished Alyssa was there to guard her instead, but she worked for Tyrion and not Joffrey. Even when the Hound was there, he was almost as drunk as the night he had told her about his scars, and when he was drunk and angry he still frightened her slightly.

 _He will not hurt me,_ Sansa thought. It felt like she always had something to thank him for, but whenever she did at best he would mock her and at worst he would think she was mocking him. He would mock the favour she was sewing him, she knew that much, if he knew she was doing so. She had wanted to sew a wolf to remind her of home, but she could not risk Joffrey or anybody else finding out, so the wolf had become a hound and the hound had become three. _Father, Arya and me,_ Sansa though, the wolves who had come down to King’s Landing. Sometimes she thought the wolves were her brothers, as Sansa knew she would eventually become a lion and at least she knew her brothers were alive. The supposed hounds kept getting more wolf features, but with the yellow background it was barely noticeable.

She also started on the sigil of House Blount, but she did not spend near as much time on it. The stitching on the porcupines in the corners was far more crooked than what she usually did, but she did not care. It was only if she got caught, and Joffrey asked what she was doing.

 _I wanted to thank them for guarding me from Lord Tyrion,_ Sansa would say. _So I sewed them all their sigils._ He thought she was a stupid little girl, and they had all given up their sigils when taking the white cloaks, so he would not think too much of it or care to. If she was not caught, she would feed the rest of the sigils to the fire.

When Sansa was finished with the wolves, she started again in reverse on another piece of fabric of the same size. She would stitch the two together so that the sigil was double-sided, so everybody would think there were three hounds, but really there were six wolves. _Me, Arya, Robb, Bran and Rickon._ Sansa swallowed. _Jon._ Not Father. Father was dead, Joffrey had made sure of that, but the rest of his pack lived… _hopefully._ She would find a way to hide a trout in the image, although she wished it could be more prominent. _Mother._

Sansa paused with her stitches very suddenly. _The sigil would never have meant family to him,_ Sansa thought. She would definitely give it to him, she decided then. _He has Alyssa now as well._ Alyssa had never spoken of the Hound, but she had not spoken much about herself and Sansa had been too frightened of her to ask.

“Has Alyssa come back?” Sansa asked the Hound the next time he was outside her door. He was drunk, but not quite as drunk as before. Sansa's ribs and back still hurt, but it had been long enough and if she stayed in bed for too much longer she would surely get bedsores.

She almost flinched at the Hound’s expression, and she took in a sharp breath. His eyes were fixed on her with a furious and frightening intensity.

“She does not care about you, little bird,” the Hound said, sounding like he was grinding out the words and wishing he say something much else. “All she wants from you is your coin and your station.”

“She…” Sansa started, but words failed her. His eyes were truly frightening when angry, and she had looked away before she knew it, regretting it as soon as she did. He forced her face up so that she was looking into his eyes, her neck craning as they were now so close. Sansa gasped in pain, and for a moment his face softened, but just for a moment.

“Look at me,” the Hound snarled. “You can’t look. Alyssa can. She looks at this” – he motioned harshly at his scars with his free hand – “and wishes she could have done the same.”

‘I will never do you true harm,’ Alyssa had said, but it had been such a cold promise. When Sansa thought of it, when she wished it to be true, it had no longer sounded as cold in her mind. Shae seemed to believe that Alyssa meant it, but perhaps what Sansa had thought she meant was not what she had meant at all. _I will never do_ you _true harm._ Sansa suddenly understood. Alyssa would not protect her, especially with what she had said after. Alyssa would just not harm her like the other people she would harm, the people who her fury had been directed at.

“She promised not to hurt me,” Sansa whispered, as much to herself as to the Hound.

“Nothing good has ever come out of Gregor,” he said, and that time he sounded almost regretful.

 

Everybody played make belief with whores. It was better to lose some of her coin than lose her life, and she did not need all of the gold dragons Tyrion had paid her. The whore did not even cost a dragon, just a handful of silvers and a glare when she seemed to want more.

The whore was probably the ugliest in the brothel, but it was all the same in the dark. She used her mouth, and Alyssa closed her eyes and imagined it was Bronn doing the same. She imagined it was Bronn’s tongue, Bronn pleasuring her. But that would be stupid. It was a stupid thought. When Bronn approached her now, she just told him to fuck off.

She could not play make belief with Lannisters and sellswords. This city was going to burn and they would see her dead without a thought. Especially if she allowed the sellsword to fuck her, and the more people who knew she was a woman the more worthless she was to Tyrion Lannister.

There were no secrets in the Red Keep. Whores spoke, and while not everybody knew everything they had heard rumours of much.

Alyssa forced herself into a seated position, dragging the whore by her wrists so that her face was by Alyssa’s shoulder instead of between her legs. She had not let go of the whore’s wrists, or let her decide where to touch her. The whore warm against her, and perhaps that was all she needed. The darkness made the pretence so much easier. Alyssa bit the inside of her cheek, not allowing the pretence for more than a few minutes longer. She stood and threw on a top and breeches, blocking the door to stop the whore from escaping. She had paid for an hour, and had used less than half.

“Tell me of Boros Blount,” Alyssa said. Whores spoke, and the whore had heard rumours of much. Her voice was nervous at first, offering little, and Alyssa could almost sense her eyes darting towards the door. It took just two words to buy both her words and her future silence. _Gold dragons._

There was not much on Boros Blount, but she did not truly give a fuck about him. The man was more fat than muscle, and he was somebody Meryn Trant sparred with and was able to regularly beat. The whore knew more of Meryn Trant, mainly rumours, and Alyssa clenched her fist. The cunt was like Raff, except weaker. Alyssa did ask about the Hound, because she always had in the past. Apparently the Hound had not beaten Sansa Stark, or at least that was what Tyrion had told her. The whore said he liked redheads. _She belongs to your king, dog._ But like as not, King Waters would eventually order somebody to rape Sansa, at latest as soon as the betrothal was no longer of use. A king would not marry a woman who was not a maiden. The Hound wanted to fuck Sansa, and he would beat the other Kingsguard in the fight for her. _I am not Gregor, dog, but if you rape Sansa Stark you will wish I was._ She swallowed, forcing her anger down.

The moon was high when she left the brothel, and she wrapped the tatty cloak around her. Even slightly battered plate armour would draw too much attention, and she was able to wear leather and mail beneath. She made less noise when she moved, and her face was still hidden enough especially in the dark.

There were no passed out gold cloaks in the streets, or if there had been they had been killed and stripped for their coin and armour. Everything stank of shit and piss and death, the buildings were more dilapidated and the streets were mostly empty. The shadows moved as she passed them, and she was far faster without the plate. The boy went sprawling, whatever he had tried to grab off her not within his grasp. He was not one she recognized. Perhaps she had seen him before, but he was far more emaciated now.

Alyssa grasped her knife under the cloak with her left hand, and her sword with her right, an odd sort of excitement coming to her at the thought of a fight. They were nothing compared to her, and they would not have the numbers. Not without her hearing them approach. _Fool. Survive._ She wondered, if one was to scream here, if anybody would care to hear them.

She trained for just an hour that night, her helm back in place, and when she was done she continued sharpening the tips of the fingers of her gauntlets into claws. She slept on the floor instead of the too soft bed. It did not help with the nightmares as much as she would have liked, but she pressed her fingers into the ridge on her left arm instead of going out to train. Tyrion always seemed to know when she trained, and he knew what it meant when she did.

‘I have nightmares too, sometimes,’ Tyrion had told her once, too seriously. She hated it when he was serious, and she had glared and once again it had gone away. ‘When I drink, they go away. Or make them worse. I never seem to figure it out, but drinking more tends to do it. Except, once, I told my brother Jaime what was bothering me. That helped, too.’ Alyssa had continued glaring at him, and he had finally looked away. ‘Right, I was just trying something there.’ And he had taken a drink, and that had been the end. She wished he would not pretend to care. It was its own sort of cruelty as it made not playing make belief so much harder.

The Riverlands still haunted her nights, but she would not let him know it. She got more sleep when she did not train, so it was less noticeable, but the pain in her forearm seemed to be worsening. It was a constant pain now, instead of a very dull throb she barely noticed unless she thought about it. When she clenched her fist, it made focussing herself easier, and beyond testing the strength of her left arm to make sure she was not weakening herself too much she refused to think of it any further. She could bear the pain. She was not that weak.

She no longer picked Sansa up in the mornings. Sansa was confined to her room as she healed, and more often than not the Hound guarded her little luxurious prison. It had been Tyrion’s idea to keep Joffrey away from Sansa, and Joffrey childishly believed he had turned it into his own idea in near enough the way Tyrion had wanted. Shae was Tyrion’s creature and was still allowed in, so Sansa had a friend and was mostly allowed to heal in peace.

Instead, Alyssa just followed Tyrion around like she had before, obeying his every instruction and speaking to no one. She took in threats and listened, watching Meryn Trant where before she had watched the Hound. If he mocked her because she was a woman, he did not do it in earshot. She found herself slightly disappointed.

“You are _not_ a silent sister,” Tyrion told her several days later. He had brought her up to his solar although they were expecting nobody, and had motioned for her to sit by his side. She had, as always. “Unless I’ve missed something major. Did you join the silent sisters without telling me? I think you need a cowl for it.”

Alyssa did not glare at him. He spoke that way a lot. “My lord.”

“Ah good, she speaks. And properly courteous. Well done,” Tyrion said. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you speak in two days.” He was surely exaggerating. “Or maybe it was three. The point is, you have been even more quiet than usual. I can hear the birds outside that window there” – he motioned towards the window – “ _far_ too loudly.”

“What do you want me to say?” she just asked him emotionlessly. Serving the silent sisters was an option, she supposed, as a last resort. It was the female version of being sent to the Wall, except most were slightly richer and more highborn and it was not near as cold. She had coin for it now though, and nobody could make her stay once there. The Stranger would understand that she would still be serving him if she left. She would even keep the silence, if there was no reason for her to speak. It terrified enemies more.

“Alyssa, I am sorry about what happened with Sansa, I truly am. I am still trying to help her, you know that,” Tyrion said. “When talking to you at the moment, it’s like talking to a statue, except I’ve seen statues with more life in their eyes.” She almost clenched her fist, but stopped herself before she did. She fixed her eyes on his, leaning forwards and placing her right hand under his chin, preventing him from looking away from her eyes.

And she imagined he was Meryn Trant. Tyrion was uglier, as it was, and his face was more misshapen, as it was. But a Kingsguard did not need a face, or his looks. A Kingsguard just had to be able to fight, and truly making him fearsome to look upon would make the weak man look strong. People were frightened by the Hound’s scars, instead of seeing them as a weakness.

It would be her duty to the king to help the Kingsguard be as good as could be. All she needed was a slight against her, an excuse. Nobody should claim that she cared at all about Sansa Stark.

It was the coldness she forced down then. She pictured Meryn Trant, she pictured the Hound, and King Waters and Catelyn Tully and Gregor and his men. She clenched both her fists, thinking about what they did or could have done or would do, until her mouth almost tasted of ash and she wished she could flay each and every single fucking one of them alive. The thought almost made her smile. Or perhaps she did smile.

Anger was life, and that was what Tyrion had asked for.

“I am not your friend. I am your guard,” Alyssa said, focussing on the coldness again. She straightened, no longer forcing the dwarf to look into her eyes.

Tyrion swallowed. “Sometimes, Alyssa, you really do frighten me.”

“Good,” Alyssa just said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Sansa is still intending to give him 'his sigil' which has sort of turned into wolves and represents her family in her eyes. I'm not sure if that particular symbolism has been done in SanSan yet, but I haven't seen it. 
> 
> Uh, yeah, sorry about the Alyssa part. I don't particularly see her reacting any other way though. 
> 
> Tell me what you think. I love feedback, it helps me improve my writing. And thanks to the people who reviewed last chapter. It makes me happy to know that people are enjoying what I write. :)


	20. The Bread Riots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella is shipped off to Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, anything you recognize from the books and TV show is not mine at all whatsoever. This is including and not limited to the dialogue and characters (although really, this warning is here for the dialogue. You know already I own none of the characters but my OC).

She no longer asked about the Hound, or Meryn Trant, or any of the other Kingsguard. She knew all about them that she needed for now. _Mandon Moore is dangerous. There is nothing in his eyes,_ Alyssa thought, and she judged that he was likely stronger than she was. Ser Arys was too pretty and not near good enough with a sword. The Dornishmen would kill him when they fucked Myrcella.

_I look Clegane,_ Alyssa had thought when she had first heard, _but I can kill them._ Not all of them, for eventually they would overpower her, but she would hurt them as badly as she could especially if she had no chance of survival. Some would be dead. A weak little girl could do nothing, and things were different in Dorne. Women did not need to be maidens, men could lay with men and women both, and she’d heard stories about Dornishmen fucking wild animals. Perhaps they liked little girls like Meryn Trant did, especially defenceless little Lannisters, and she did not have to be a maiden. If they were discreet with her arrival and killed all of Myrcella’s guards, they could even claim that she had never arrived. Ships sank all the time.

But Alyssa had not commented on that. It was happening, and the odds that the Martells would rape Myrcella to death were slightly less than her being burned alive when Tyrion unleashed the wildfire. _She would make a good hostage. Fire does not take any of those._

Alyssa had just pushed it out of her mind. It made no matter to her. She had nodded when Tyrion had told her, and not said a word. What she did ask about was Joffrey and her father. Joffrey to Tyrion, Gregor to the whores. The whores would not know enough about Joffrey, and Tyrion would pity her and think her weak or odd if she asked him about Gregor. She tried her best to put a little bit of emotion into her voice when speaking to Tyrion, not even sure herself how fake it was, but it was enough to get him to leave her alone. He did ask her questions, but they were easy questions, like how old she was and whether she could read. The second answer made him talk about all sorts of books in a sort of excited tone, and it had been hard for her to focus on the numbness then. It was a waste of time, no matter his excitement. King’s Landing was going to burn. She had no time for fairy tales and make belief.

The ship that was meant to take the bastard princess off to Dorne was in the distance. The fat High Septon was saying the words for the Seven, droning with little enthusiasm and difficult to hear over the crowd. Sansa had been given a stool to sit on at Tyrion’s request, and her dress was not pulled as tight as usual. Somehow she managed to look as ladylike as always, her back straight and not a hair out of place. She did not look like somebody who had been injured, and that was the aim. If too long passed without anybody seeing Sansa Stark, that could end badly for Jaime Lannister.

Ser Meryn was Sansa’s ‘guard’, standing behind her with a fist clenched around the hilt of his sword. His presence was meant to be threatening, to Sansa more than anybody else as at any moment he could be ordered to beat her, but Sansa did not once look into his direction.

Alyssa was stood several paces back, next to some Lannister sworn knights. She kept herself completely motionless, focussing on watching Tyrion as it was Tyrion she was meant to be guarding. _Sansa is nothing to me,_ Alyssa told herself again, listening to the actual queen’s cold words.

“One day I pray you love someone,” Cersei was saying, only looking in the direction of her daughter on the boat. Myrcella was the lady she was trained to be; she had cried no doubt, but now she was completely dry-eyed. Her face was a mask, set to be pretty and please and nothing more. _Defenceless._ “I pray you love her so much, when you close your eyes, you see her face. I want that for you. I want you to know what it's like to love someone, to truly love someone. Before I take her from you.”

Alyssa clenched her fist tightly, focussing on the pain that erupted up her arm. The words somehow left her with a sick feeling. _She cares for her daughter,_ Alyssa thought. It was irrelevant to her.

Tyrion had turned away from his sister and now Alyssa could see his face. He looked pained, and she held out a hand to stop him from passing her. The streets were no safe place for an upset highborn dwarf. Especially one as hated as he was.

Alyssa clenched her fist again and forced herself not to look in Sansa’s direction. There were too many knights here, too many enemies for her to be anything other than stone. She could watch for threats, but not for little highborn girls she cared nothing for. She was not to watch the weeping prince, far too weak for what a prince was meant to be. For once, King Waters was right.

“You sound like a little cat mewling for his mother,” he whined. “Princes don’t cry.”

“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon,” Sansa piped up, her voice even. “And the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound.”

“Be quiet, or I’ll have Ser Meryn give you a mortal wound,” King Waters said, and Alyssa found herself looking in their direction. Meryn’s now half-sheathed blade shone in the sun, but the king had lost interest. Joffrey sneered, walking away with an order for his dog to follow. Alyssa clenched her fist again, took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain numb. It was irrelevant, and she pushed it out of her mind. It was only Tyrion she was here to guard.

The streets were empty as they walked through them, but the crowds were there, sometimes slightly further away, sometimes above them. Their faces were gaunt, with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Most did not look like they had eaten in weeks, and if they had it had done little to sustain them. Tyrion had placed some of Bronn’s sellsword friends in the crowd as a precaution, but there were too many people for a few sellswords to control.

Alyssa looked up, trying to spot the glint of an arrowhead, crossbows being more likely than bows as anybody could use a crossbow, but she could not spot anything. Likely they were too poor to own one, and would long ago have traded away most all of their small wealth simply to eat. Not that they needed a crossbow to kill from above. Rocks would do it, if large enough and thrown with enough force.

There were too many highborns. The pace was too slow and there was too much finery on display. Alyssa focussed herself, shuffling along behind Tyrion feeling the dead eyes on her. _Not on me, on them._ The highborns, the bastard king most of all.

“Hail Joffrey! Hail to the king!” a voice yelled from above. It broke the stony silence. Alyssa clenched her fist. They were unarmed, and she could cut through them like a knife could cut through butter, but there were too many. She loosened the straps of her shield. If it came to a fight, it would be more cumbersome than was worth.

“Please, your Grace, we are hungry!” one voice said, and then there were more voices than silence.

“Get the prince back to the keep now,” Tyrion ordered quickly, and Tommen was pulled away by some Lannister sworn men. It was not far to the entrance of the Red Keep, but they were going far too slowly. And then everybody drew their swords.

It took a moment for Alyssa to see what had happened. The little shit of a king had shit in his golden hair, dripping down his whiny highborn face. His voice came out shrill. “Who threw that? I want the man who threw that. Find who did that and bring him to me!”

The crowds were getting louder and louder, roaring and fighting against the men now trying to force them back. The king’s eyes were wild, frightened almost, his mouth open.

“Just kill them! Kill them all!” the stupid foolish cunt king yelled, and then nobody in the crowd had a reason not to attack. The crowds fell upon the swords, but there were too many and from too many directions. Suddenly Alyssa was glad for the finery, as it told her who not to impale on her blade. She kicked her shield backwards, forcing two men back, drawing the hidden knife with her right hand and gripping her shortsword with her left. She thrust the blade of the knife into a man’s eye, forcing him away from her. It took her a moment to spot Tyrion, then she was by him. He was with Lannister men, so she kept him at her back, hoping that none of them would stab her.

_Fucking fool. Put my back to the swords to guard against men with rocks and sticks,_ she thought, but it was a fast thought and too soon she was fighting against another attack. The man had no front teeth but for one lone black one, and when she struck him in the face he no longer had that one either. Another was just behind him and she struck his temple, thrusting her knee into his gut to get him back.

And then there was screaming. There had always been sound, angry cries and the pained cries of dying men, but this continued. She turned, and the fat High Septon was being pulled into a crowd. She did not care about him, even when they tore him apart. He was far too fat when people starved.

Somebody jumped at her, and she spun, letting the person land on her blade. When the body crumbled to the floor, Alyssa noticed it was a woman, but it was nothing to her. Nothing. They had to get to the Red Keep. The highborns were moving faster, but everybody was getting more and more separated. She turned quickly. Tyrion seemed to have frozen in place, staring at the High Septon’s arm as it was held out into the air.

“Move,” she snarled at him, and he looked up at her.

“Sansa,” Tyrion said. “Where’s Sansa?” And she felt cold. Not the numb sort of coldness, but sheer fear that hit her deep in the gut. She moved to sheath her knife, except she did not have a sheath to spare, so she forced the hilt into Tyrion’s hand and held him tightly. _Sansa._ The slit in her visor was suddenly far too small. _Red hair. Finery. The most fucking highborn girl I’ve ever seen._ But there was only the starving crowd, wild with anger and desperation, tattered clothes against armour and fighting swords with rocks. _Sansa._ Sansa ought to stand out, unless she was on the ground, unless they had dragged her away to fuck her.

Alyssa snarled, forcing herself to move, to protect Tyrion as she knew where he was. If she lost the dwarf in this crowd she not be able to find him again. _Get Tyrion to the Red Keep._ Somebody came at her with a rock, and she smacked them aside. _Fuck, fuck._ She should have kept an eye on Meryn Trant if nothing else. He was utterly fucking worthless as a guard. _Tyrion._ She clenched her fist more tightly around the hilt of her shortsword, focussing on her movements, on the surroundings. There was a clang of metal against metal and she turned.

Some cunt had tried to stab her. It was a knife, a proper knife, likely from the fallen bodies, except the man had gone for the back of her breastplate instead of any gaps in the armour. She turned and he ran, getting caught in the crowds and falling. _Tyrion._ She had no time for chasing cunts through crowds. She forced herself forwards, keeping Tyrion tucked in front of her, watching out for the glint of metal and striking everybody who did not move. Passing through the gate to the Red Keep was like falling into another world. The calm hit her, and she turned, guards blocking the gate behind her.

Joffrey was babbling in the centre of the courtyard. “Traitors! Traitors.” And more words that she did not care for, calling for their execution no doubt. Perhaps Sansa was already here, except all the highborn ladies had been behind them.

Alyssa forced herself to go still. She could not show them weakness, although the cold feeling was not fading. Sansa wasn’t here. _Highborn, fucking beautiful._ If she was lucky, she would be alive after they fucked her. Alyssa almost laughed. _No, lucky is they kill her first and fuck her corpse._ Alive was to be found in a ditch, broken and even more injured. Joffrey would have no reason not to have her raped again and again, as she’d already no longer have her maidenhead. Kings did not take leavings from the smallfolk, so he would punish her all the more.

Tyrion had smacked the king, but she did not care. Waters was too weak to punish his uncle for treason, or even too weak to withstand the smack of a dwarf as he was on the ground now like he had been hit with a gauntleted fist.

“Where’s the Stark girl?” Tyrion demanded.

“Let them have her,” Waters whined, and Alyssa clenched her fist as tightly as she could to stop herself from tearing the king limb from limb. Then she saw Meryn Trant, and she strode towards him, pausing only because she could not be seen to care. Tyrion looked up, spotted him.

“Where is Lady Sansa?” Tyrion demanded.

“My first thought was to protect the king, Imp,” Meryn said. The coldness fear faded, anger taking its place. She would not have the patience to flay him, she knew that much. The thumbs of her gauntlets and the first two fingers of her right hand were claws. She would tear his face open like she was the lions he served, tear at him until the flesh peeled from the bone. Then she would beat him until his bones became paste… she took a breath. _Not now._ Soon. The next time she had the chance.

“You were her shield! Her guard!” Tyrion yelled. “Get some men together and go find her!”

“I am Kingsguard. I take my orders only from the king,” Meryn said. Tyrion looked at Joffrey, who just turned and stormed deeper into the castle. Meryn followed behind, fucking obedient when it did not involve him risking his life.

“I’ll go,” Alyssa said lowly.

“Be careful,” Tyrion said, suddenly softer.

“I’ve got armour, they’ve got sticks,” Alyssa said. It would be the fucking jape of the gods. Being torn apart by a crowd of weak people, women and old men and men near too starving to stand. The sort that would have burned. Because she was too fucking foolish to remain in the large castle with high walls where it was safe.

And then the Hound forced his way in through the gates, a sword in one hand and Sansa Stark slung over his other shoulder. He set her down against a pillar. Her face had lost all its colour and she looked pained. Her old injuries, no doubt, although she had a new cut on the side of her neck that was leaking thin trails of blood. Nothing vital had been hit, or the bleeding would have been worse.

Tears were in Sansa’s eyes, some had left trails down her face. She shook, even as handmaidens came to wrap a thin cloak around her shoulders to cover her torn clothes. Her dress was dirty, the skirt was ripped down the side. There was another tear down her neckline. Somebody had held her down to fuck her, and Alyssa could not tell if they had succeeded. The Hound would have joined them no doubt, nobody would ever know that he did. All he’d have to do was claim that he had found her that way… but Sansa had been clinging to him. _She would be worse if somebody fucked her._ Surely.

“The little bird's bleeding,” the Hound said, and Alyssa clenched her fist. Little bird _._ Sansa had been clinging to him. _She would have clung to any rescuer, just not one who had fucked her._ Except Sansa’s eyes were on the Hound, and there was no fear or revulsion. “Someone take her back to her cage.”

 

‘I need you to check on Sansa for me,’ Tyrion had said. She could swear he had seemed almost amused then. ‘I fear she will not take too kindly to a Lannister at the moment. Remind me to hit my nephew again the next time I see him.’ Alyssa had given him a look. ‘Though I don’t think I’ll forget.’

There was something wrong with what he was saying, something in the tone, but she was grateful enough for the order that she did not question it. She wanted to see Sansa, although it was stupid and Sansa would no doubt be frightened of her. _She’s not of the Hound._ And that kept the cold fear in place, not quite as bad as when she’d had no idea where Sansa was, but still there.

_She’s still a maiden,_ Alyssa thought, but the thought was mostly to convince herself. Sansa would be cast aside if she was not. Gregor’s third wife-to-be hadn’t been a maiden, which was why she had been sold to Gregor. Alyssa had seen her. She’d already been a shell of a woman, empty-eyed and frightened. Proven to be fertile, they had said. But her maidenhead was gone, and so was most of her worth. Her father had sold her to Tywin Lannister, who had sold her on. Gregor had seen no reason to wait until the wedding, had just dragged her off into a dark room and fucked her. She had screamed loudly enough that the entire keep could hear until her screams until they had abruptly stopped, but she had not been dead; Gregor would just have had enough of her screams and smashed her face in. No, she was a long time in dying. Days, near a week. The merciful thing to do would have been to kill her, but Alyssa was not fool enough. When he was done, Gregor had stormed off and found a whore, leaving his wife-not-to-be broken on the ground. The best excuse Maester Tomas could come up with was that she’d fallen from her horse riding, then all the other horses behind had trampled all over her. Alyssa did not think horses could cause that much damage, not unless you were _very_ unlucky.

She forced it out of her mind. She did not care, could not care, but she could not find the numbness. The redheaded whores. Little bird. Him going out to find her, abandoning his king like Meryn Trant would not, although the Hound had been sworn to protect the king and Meryn had been sworn to protect Sansa. ‘I didn’t do it for you,’ the Hound had said. The Hound cared for Sansa, or at least he thought he did, but no doubt it was nothing more than obsession. He would break her; he would just take longer in doing so.

_No, the future queen, she’s as safe as can been._ Perhaps she would still have worth, even without her maidenhead. There was surely something they could get out of her. They would not sell her to the Hound.

The handmaiden who was not a handmaiden was the one who opened the door, and Alyssa forced her aside.

“Out,” Alyssa snarled.

“I am staying with Lady Sansa,” Shae said. She was Tyrion’s creature. Even if it was only Tyrion she reported back to, Alyssa could not have Tyrion knowing more about her weakness than he had already guessed. _He knows though._ Of course he would, she had all but told him. _If he just wanted to check up on Sansa, he would have asked Shae._

“I will not harm her,” Alyssa said, flicking her visor up. Shae took a long look at her, assessing, before something in her expression seemed to shift.

“You will not harm her,” Shae repeated, before getting far too close to her. Shae’s hands were on her shoulders, and she pulled herself up so that she was on the tips of her toes, close enough to speak right into her ear. “They did not rape her, but it was a near thing. You do not mention it when speaking to her. Understand?” Alyssa nodded, and Shae moved away. Alyssa wondered whether Shae would stand guard outside, as if she would be any use.

Sansa was sitting on her bed, watching her. She was in a new dress, one that was clean and not at all torn, but the look in her eyes was still distant. Alyssa did not know what to say. She was still playing make belief. Sansa would hate her, would fear her, at latest when she dealt with Meryn Trant. Why she’d ever thought she would be able to do anything for Sansa or get anything from her was truly beyond her.

“Please sit down,” Sansa said, offering her a smile that did not reach her eyes. Alyssa sat slowly on the chair opposite the bed, and it creaked slightly.

“I’m…” Alyssa started. She bit her lip, cursed her weakness and looked to the ground. She was yielding to a girl who had never asked her to yield. “I’m sorry.” The pain was definitely worse when she clenched her fist now, and at that moment she was truly glad for it. She needed the pain, and she focussed on it for a moment before hissing out an angry breath. “You do not fear the Hound.”

Sansa was silent and Alyssa looked up. The future queen’s face was a mask, giving nothing away, and Alyssa tried to force herself to be the same way. She took a breath, trying to get the numbness back.

“He’s not like his brother… your father,” Sansa said tentatively, and Alyssa found herself laughing. She bit her lip to try to stop the sound, focussing herself once more. There were so many responses to that she could give. _I feel nothing,_ Alyssa told herself.

“He will still harm you,” Alyssa said coldly. “He will still fuck you. He will still kill you.”

“H-he won’t,” Sansa said, and then she seemed to gain more resolve. “I cannot say he’s been kind to me, but he’s always protected me as best he could.” She fell silent again, and Alyssa did not speak either. The numbness was still there, just out of reach, and she tried her best to focus on it.

It was a stupid pretence. It would only be for a few days, then Sansa would hate her. Alyssa unsheathed a knife, resting it on her palm and holding it out. Then she swallowed.

“I worked in the kitchens,” Alyssa said. “Before Gregor started letting me train. I knew where all the knives were. I would practice with them, the best I could.” She swallowed again. It had made absolutely no difference, but she could rely on good steel. It was nothing to her. She could lose it and there would simply be another she could use. She never knew which of the serving girls would end up dead. “It made me feel safer.”

Alyssa stood, walking over to Sansa and standing close enough that she could easily grab the blade. Sansa watched her closely, and several times it looked like she was about to speak although no words came from her mouth.

Eventually Sansa reached out and picked the knife up, far too delicately with just her thumb and forefinger, before setting it down gently on the bed next to her.

“Grab the knife properly,” Alyssa said. “You cannot do anything if you hold it like that.” Sansa, to her surprise, started giggling. Then Alyssa was laughing as well, not sure why, perhaps only because Sansa was. But it left her with a strange warm feeling.

“I have four brothers… and a sister, who half the time pretended she was a brother. I know how to hold a knife properly,” Sansa said, smiling fondly for a moment before pain and fear clouded her gaze. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. My brother is a traitor. I have no fondness for him.” Alyssa clenched her fist again, behind her back so not to frighten Sansa, but Sansa’s words had sobered her.

“I know,” Alyssa just said with as much certainty as she could muster, as if she believed the obvious lie. Even Sansa seemed slightly startled. Alyssa stood, flicking her visor back down and moving to leave.

“I would like you to come back,” Sansa said. “Tomorrow, I mean. I would be very grateful.”

Alyssa nodded, but did not turn around or speak. Grateful? Sansa had got it closer when she had not trusted her.

_Only a few days,_ Alyssa thought. Less than that, really. _I burned the Riverlands. I burned your cunt mother’s home. I killed some of your father’s men._ It was cruelty, pretending to be Sansa’s friend, but perhaps if nothing else she would be able to convince Sansa that the Hound was no better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this was a longer chapter. Basically the length of maybe two other chapters, but that depends on which chapters you choose. 
> 
> I went with the book version of Sansa and Joffrey’s conversation when Myrcella’s on the boat as 1) I did not think, with Meryn directly behind her, Sansa would be brave enough to directly say that she saw Joffrey cry and 2) the book dialogue just fitted, especially with Meryn being there.
> 
> This chapter knocked a bit of denial out of Alyssa. At least for now the poor girl is not just supressing her emotions and is admitting to herself that she cares.
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	21. Her Father's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gives Sandor a gift. Meryn Trant gets rewarded for his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have got to put a strong violence warning on this. I will summarise in the end notes, but if you do not want to read the violent part do not read from the Rains of Castamere lyrics onwards. As in, do not read past: 
> 
> "In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws.  
> And mine are long and sharp, my lord, just as sharp as yours."

Sansa finished the sigil that night, working by candlelight. The position she had to be in to get the best light made her ribs hurt more than they had done, somehow on both sides now. She could still feel the hands upon her, but she focussed on the stitching until she was so tired that she could not continue. The sleep that claimed her was blissfully deep, and there were no dreams, although Sansa was still tired when she awoke to Shae’s voice and an insistent knocking on her door. Sansa awoke groggily, rubbing her eyes and getting to her feet. She had not even crawled under the covers the previous night in her state of exhaustion, and the pain of the motion brought tears to her eyes. _I am a wolf. Like Father, like Robb, like Bran and Rickon and Jon and Arya._ A wolf would not be brought to her knees by the likes of Meryn Trant and… but then the tears came properly. Arya would have known what to do. Arya would have known the area, and known where to run, as she would have explored it like she always did. They never would have caught Arya.

 _They didn’t catch Arya._ Arya wasn’t dead, she had to believe it. _She’s probably up in Winterfell now, Joffrey just did not want to tell me._ Or perhaps Joffrey would not even know.

But that wasn’t how the world worked, she knew that now. Sansa sobbed, but it made her ribs hurt and her back hurt and she could still feel the hands upon her. The knocking came again, more insistent, but Sansa could not bring herself to answer it.

‘Please, Shae, I just want to be alone,’ Sansa had said the previous evening. It had been a lie, but she hadn’t wanted Shae to be there to watch her, to see her fail to sleep. Shae had not left. ‘I command you to leave me. You are a handmaiden; you must do as I command.’ Sansa had felt so bad after, though not near as bad as when she had pushed Alyssa away, and Shae had still not moved. ‘Please Shae, let me believe I can control just one thing. Leave me, please.’

‘I will be back tomorrow. Do not open the door for anybody but me,’ Shae had said, and Sansa had agreed and truly hoped that none of the Kingsguard would come. They hadn’t, but Shae had no way of knowing that they would not.

Sansa wiped at her tears and forced herself to move even if it was only slowly. It was only several paces to the door, then she unbarred it and pulled it open. Shae entered quickly.

“You must dry your tears,” Shae said. “ _Our king_ demands your presence this morning?” Sansa froze, and she could see Joffrey’s face as it had been when he had ordered her father’s execution, the way it had been when he’d had her stripped in front of half the court, the way it had been when… when… _What does he want?_ She had been lucky that he had left her alone so far, not even coming up to her to demean her since the Hound had rescued her.

“Why?” she gasped.

“I don’t know. Probably to ridicule you,” Shae said. “You cannot cry. You cannot let him see that his words hurt you.”

“Do you think he’ll make Ser Meryn beat me again?” Since Joffrey had dragged her down to her father’s prison cell, Meryn had been Joffrey’s favourite person to torment her with. Even before, it had been him more often than others. Perhaps it was because he enjoyed beating her. Sansa could tell he most definitely did.

“I do not think Ser Meryn will be able to hurt you for much longer,” Shae said. “Sansa, I told you Tyrion is not one of the bad ones. Meryn Trant is. I have heard a lot about him.”

“I know,” Sansa just said. Meryn Trant was one of the bad ones, perhaps worse than the other Kingsguard, but Joffrey was worse still. _The world is full of bad men._ If she did not know that by now, she was just the stupid little girl they all said she was.

Even completely loose the dress hurt her ribs and back horribly, and even with Shae being as gentle as she could Sansa kept wincing in pain. Each time Shae reassured her with hushed words, and Sansa would feel the tears slipping from her eyes. _I should not cry. I cannot._ But she was. Walking made her bruised thighs protest, and she was short of breath after taking just a few steps, a second ache joining the first although this ache felt like it was just under the ribs instead.

The dress Shae dressed her in covered the new wound on her neck as well. It wasn’t deep, the maester had said, and even the pain of it was not too bad. The maester had told her that it shouldn’t scar, but it would not surprise Sansa at all if it did. Or Joffrey would make certain she was constantly reminded in another way.

The knife was under her pillow. Alyssa had said that it had helped her feel safe, and Sansa had collected a knife the first time she had gone out to meet Ser Dontos. _She does understand._ Sansa knew that now for certain. Cersei had lied to her, Joffrey had lied to her, King’s Landing was a city of liars. If Alyssa had lied to her the previous day she was the best liar in the city, as nobody could fake the true pain she’d had in her eyes, or the broken way she had apologized after. Sansa could not say exactly when she had stopped fearing the Hound, but she knew that was the exact moment she had stopped fearing Alyssa.

 _It isn’t Lord Tyrion’s offer,_ Sansa thought. She had been unsure then, but not anymore. If it was Tyrion’s offer Alyssa would have been less uncertain, or brought her to Tyrion who would have offered himself. Sansa just hoped she would return. _She had been happy, for just a moment._ Or at the very least the pain in her eyes had been gone. _I ruined that._

“Sansa,” Shae said gently. _I don’t want to go,_ Sansa thought childishly, but she knew she had to. _The less I fight it, the easier it will be._ The Hound had told her something of the sort, just before Joffrey had her stripped. _No, I am a wolf. A wolf does not bow to lions, or to stags. A wolf bows only to winter, and come spring it rises again._ Father had always told her of the importance of family, of the wolf pack, and she had not listened then. It was her fault. He had wanted her to leave, but instead she had gone and told Cersei. Now she was alone, and his words came back to her once more. _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

It was the Hound who pounded on the door, and Sansa was instantly relieved. She gripped the sigil she had sewed him, holding it in her hand and tucking it against her side. She would thank him properly, she had to even if he wouldn’t take it. He was the one who had come to save her, although it was Meryn Trant who was meant to be her guard.

The Hound’s eyes burned into her, and Sansa shuddered under his gaze. He was inspecting her, and suddenly she felt nervous. Her dress felt too tight, even though it was loose as could be, and her ribs throbbed when she breathed.

“You are quiet, little bird,” he said. “Normally you’d be chirping my ear off with thanks and apologies.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, and he barked out a laugh. “But thank you…” She deliberately did not add the knightly title, having to purposely refrain herself from doing so. “I have something for you. As thanks. I made it for you before, when you helped me.”

She could not look him in the face when she said it, because she knew the moment she saw his expression she would lose her nerve. She heard his intake of breath, and it was a harsh sound.

“You must not keep him waiting,” the Hound snarled. “I do not need your stupid favour.” _You must look,_ Sansa told herself. He hated it when she didn’t, so she forced herself to look up at him and not to flinch at the fury in his eyes.

“Please take it,” Sansa said. “I want for you to have it, truly.” She unfolded the fabric and held it out to him, and he looked as if she had struck him.

“I never knew you to be cruel,” the Hound said harshly, tearing the sigil from her hands. She stumbled, pain shooting up her side, but she managed to keep her feet. “This is my brother’s sigil.” He spat on the ground. “Right now, he is burning his way through the Riverlands. It was my father’s. He let Gregor do whatever the fuck he pleased, covering it up so that he could be a fucking knight. When Gregor smashed my sister’s skull in, my father told my mother that she did not matter. She was only a daughter. She would never get a knighthood.”

Sansa opened her mouth, but no words came. Tears made her vision blurry. She had been very wrong. The sigil had always meant family for the Hound, but in the most horrific way.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa choked out. Her family had always cared for her and tried their best to protect her, even Arya. She could not imagine having somebody like Ser Gregor or the Hound’s father as family. It was almost no wonder that the Hound and Alyssa did not trust each other, if they had both known only cruelty. _He will know a better family. He has Alyssa._ “I did not mean it to be cruel, please believe me. It’s… it’s my family. Keep them safe for me.” Sansa forced herself to continue, encouraged by the fact that the fury in his eyes had softened slightly. It was not completely gone, but he looked sort of… wary. “You have Alyssa. She is not as bad as you think she is.” Even as she said the words, she knew he would not take them, and then the anger had returned.

“There is no goodness in Alyssa. Get any other ideas out of your empty little head,” the Hound snarled. “She is exactly what my brother wanted her to be, or he never would have dressed her in armour and let her parade around for the world to see. She helped Gregor burn the Riverlands, and stopped only because he wasn’t paying her enough. She has tortured men to death. One of Gregor’s men, once. She burned his cock off, so said he could no longer be called a man. Gregor gave him to her after.” Sansa opened her mouth, but he cut her off with another glare. “Those serving girls she claimed were her family, she’s set Gregor on them. Then she says that she never did them harm. Aye, _she_ didn’t.”

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. Sansa tried her hardest to fit the picture of the woman the Hound had painted for her with the deeply damaged woman she had seen the previous day. It did not fit. But when she compared it to Alyssa’s coldness, it fitted all too well. It had been such a relief to trust somebody who truly understood, but perhaps she had been foolish. She had been so sure.

Or perhaps the Hound was wrong, if only slightly. There was some goodness in Alyssa, she had seen it, but even Tyrion Lannister had said that Alyssa was by no means a good person. Sansa knew that Alyssa wanted to help her, even if she enjoyed hurting everybody else… but she couldn’t enjoy it. Her eyes had been filled with pain and she had looked truly tired, like it was a wonder she was still awake. Joffrey had never once lost sleep over anything he had done.

_Shae believed Alyssa wasn’t going to harm me._

“She will not harm me,” Sansa said, and the words even sounded stupid to her. The Hound would not believe her and think her stupid, and Sansa wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince herself with those words. _If she set Gregor on her family… no, she cannot have._ Shae had said to trust nobody, and perhaps that was just for the best. _I was so sure._ What the Hound said was just utterly horrifying, and Sansa could remember how frightening Alyssa had been the first time they had met. At the same time though, she remembered the words. The words were empty when Sansa recited them, though she could not recall if Alyssa had sounded empty when she’d said the same. “Only a fool would harm the future queen.”

Perhaps that was the slightest bit of relief in the Hound’s eyes, underneath all of the anger. His eyes softened slightly again, but Sansa felt oddly empty.

“These are dogs,” the Hound said, and she did not even flinch when he tore the fabric in two, then in two again. _Nobody is to be trusted here._ Maybe Shae could teach her to use a knife, so she would not be completely defenceless when Ser Dontos said it was time to go. _He will take me. He must. He swore in front of the old gods._

 

The training dummy split in two, and she kicked it to the ground. She wished it wasn’t a dummy. She wished it was the Hound. It was his fault, and then somehow she was laughing. He had simply sped up what would already happen. She was the biggest fool of the Seven Kingdoms.

 _What did I want? For a highborn maiden not to fear me, when cunts do?_ The world did not work that way. Gregor’s men had to fear her, or she would be dead, and the men here could be no different. It was stupid of her to believe that Sansa Stark could fear them and not her. _She does not fear the Hound._

Sansa had been all proper and courteous when Alyssa had gone to her. Sansa was always proper and courteous, exactly what they had trained her to be, but however stupid it was Alyssa knew Sansa had cared about her. It was in the expression, in the eyes. The expression on Sansa’s face had been the exact same as when King Waters had mocked her for almost being raped, before Tyrion had stepped in, and Alyssa had felt herself go cold. The distance was painful, when before there had been a warmth.

‘If you harm Sansa Stark, Gregor will not stop me from gutting you. Might be I will send him your head,’ the Hound had snarled at her, just those words and nothing more. And with Sansa’s look, she had understood.

 _T_ ake whatever you fucking please. _She had chosen, suspiciously but not slowly, sliding a knife beneath her belt and gripping a sword. She could not be defenceless. Pate had been far too gentle when he had cleaned her up before, bandaging her wounds and dressing her up in warm clean clothes. Then Ser Darrin, the master-at-arms, had offered her weapons when he himself was unarmed. Pate had come back then, not alone._ Do you know who this is? _Willa, a tanner’s daughter, sold to Clegane Keep._

 _S_ ome serving girl. _Her voice had been even. She had practiced it to be even. They could not see weakness._

‘Do you want me to go?’ Alyssa had asked Sansa, numbness blanketing her instead of anger.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Sansa had said, but her eyes had belied her words. It was fear Alyssa saw there. It was the mask Sansa gave her enemies, the empty courtesy. ‘Perhaps some other time. My ribs are still very sore.’

That was true, Alyssa had no doubt, but it was also an excuse. Sansa Stark could make those well enough, even if King Waters did not care for them.

But Alyssa was not going to deny the future queen. She had just answered with a glare and a nod. She could have warned Sansa against the Hound again, but Sansa did not fear the Hound and apparently trusted him too. There was nothing to be done.

 _D_ oes the little bastard care what happens to her? _Pate’s mockery as he tore open Willa’s top, groping at the breasts. Willa’s whimper._

No. _The sword had suddenly felt heavier in her hand, useless by her side. They were unarmed and she was not. They were unarmed when they fucked Willa, she could kill them. Drive the sword through their backs, but it was heavy in her hand. She would be dead. There was nothing to be done. Nothing to be done._

That was the game, the jape from the gods. There was nothing to be done. She was no guardian of fair maidens who were trapped between cunts and their rabid dogs.

The training dummy flew half way across the courtyard, and there was a loud crash on impact. Alyssa strode up to it, taking several deep breaths, a calm settling over her. It was good, what the Hound had done. The pretence was making her weak.

 

Three days after the riots, they found Ser Preston’s body. His face had been smashed in with a rock, and his armour had been so muddied and bloodied that they had barely recognized him.

Alyssa noted with little emotion that they had still not found her shield. Tyrion had given her another, oaken and slightly heavier than the one she’d had before. Or perhaps it was because her left arm was weakening. She was now getting constant shooting pains even when she did not have her fist clenched. When she clenched her fist, it worsened the pain, and she tried her hardest to remember not to. She could not afford to irritate the injury further, and yet most of the time she did not remember until she had already done so. At nights she would now go to the kitchens to get some cold water to try to get the swelling down, but if it worked it worked little.

 _I need a maester,_ Alyssa thought, but she could not afford that. The best she could do was add another makeshift brace to restrict her movements. King Waters had made her remove her helm, and she had obeyed wordlessly and without hesitation. It was not her he cared about, only Tyrion he wished to make look weak. _The best knight the Imp can get is a woman._ That had been met with laughter, although Tyrion had stopped it from going further. It mattered little. Many had known before, and now most everybody did.

Everybody already knew she was a woman; if they also thought her to be a cripple she was completely worthless. She was the Imp’s whore now, not the Imp’s shadow, although they were still fearful of saying it directly to her face.

At nights she abandoned her plate, except for the helm and her gauntlets, wearing mail under a tattered cloak. She tucked food into inside pockets, mainly bread and nothing that would smell. The children ate quickly, and they would not say a word about the food she was giving them for if not they would lose it. When a boy, Kyden, showed her the best route to Ser Meryn’s favourite brothel, she pressed a gold dragon into his palm. She did not let go of his hand, in case he would run off.

“’e ‘ussa wurt ‘ere,” Kyden said. He was missing half his front teeth and half of the others were cracked and broken. He stuck his tongue through the gap as he spoke. Alyssa crouched down, focussing to make sense of his words. His mother had worked at the brothel, but a man had beaten her half to death and then she was not pretty enough to even be a novelty fuck. So she had been cast out into the streets with her son, who had been five at the time. Kyden’s sister had been nine. They had kept her.

Alyssa clenched her fist before she remembered she ought not to, but she did not care. Kyden was now no more than ten himself now.

“Is your mother alive?” Alyssa found herself asking, her voice even. There was an emptiness there, where perhaps she should have cared, but she asked the question anyway. Kyden shook his head. It was dark, and his lips sagged in slightly. Telling his expression was difficult, and she did not care enough to try. There was nothing to be done.

Five days after the riots, she found a helm in the mud. It was dented and the front was fixed rather than having a visor, but finding it brought a smile to her face. She wore it every time she exited the Red Keep after that.

Eight days after the riots, Meryn Trant visited the brothel. She pressed another gold dragon into Kyden’s palm. Then she found a good place and waited, a smile that was perhaps a grimace growing on her face. Her heart was racing in her chest, and her right hand went to the hilt of her sword although truly she would not need it.

_In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws._

_And mine are long and sharp, my lord, just as sharp as yours._

It was clarity, because this she could do.

Meryn Trant truly was pathetic. He was out in a city where most everybody would wish him dead, and he walked in the lopsided way of somebody who’d had a few flagons too many. He did wear his armour, she could see with the way the light reflected off it, although it was not properly fastened. Even his helm was gone. He had removed some of his armour to get his cock out, and it was not quite correctly fastened back into place.

She walked up to him, and his reactions were slow. Too slow for a proper knight. He drew his longsword, but she was already inside his range and slammed her knee into his crotch. He doubled over and she twisted his sword arm, digging her thumb into his exposed wrist until the sword fell from his grip. She kicked it behind her, and a crash emanated from the side of her head.

She tasted blood, but it was only because she had bitten the inside of her cheek. He tried to grab for a knife, but she forced him against the wall. Her fist slammed into his lips, once, twice. Blood and bits of broken teeth flew from his mouth.

He was screaming now, but his eyes were fully sober. It would be so easy for her to press her thumbs into them, but he was Kingsguard. He had to be able to serve.

A Kingsguard did not need his teeth. He worked for the Lannisters, so was rich enough that he could get new teeth made of gold.

She had beaten stronger men than Meryn Trant. The armour protected him from most harm. He moaned, stumbled, his fists easy to avoid even in the dim light. A kick to the back of his knees and he was on the ground. She half knelt behind him, using her weight to pin his legs into place. Her left forearm was pressed into his mouth, her other hand tore his sword belt away and tossed it out of reach. He still screamed, her cloak only muffling it slightly.

She truly wished she could have torn out his tongue, but he was Kingsguard. He had to be able to serve.

A Kingsguard did not need his face. A man could not fight with his face, and Ser Meryn was a craven. Making him fearsome to look upon would help him serve.

She tore at his face with her free hand, left side first across his nose and his forehead until she reached his right cheek. Then she forced her index and middle fingers down with all the force she was capable of, twisting slowly, feeling the skin and sinew and flesh tear away. He was struggling, but his struggle was truly weak and only worsened the way the flesh tore. She did not stop until there was the scraping of metal against metal, until even the cloak had been damaged and it was her own mail she had come in contact with. He still had some teeth in the back, she noted emotionlessly, and she pressed the points of her claws into the gums beneath before she pulled her fingers free.

Ser Meryn was trying to say something between his screams, but between the gap in his cheek and the gap where his teeth once were she could not understand what. His face was streaked with blood, and tears streamed from his eyes to join it. From the smell, he had also pissed himself, but the alleyway smelled of piss anyway so she would have to check.

She did check. If he was not Kingsguard, she would have gelded him, but he was. He had to be a man.

But a Kingsguard did not need use of his cock. He ought not go to brothels, or fuck little girls. It was against his vows. He had to serve the king, and not be distracted by anything else.

Alyssa Hill was calm, and she smiled. But she had to be smart. If a man was attacked on the streets, the attacker did not tend to have his cock flayed and she truly ought to be gone. Instead she just punched him, again and again until her fist ached, and then she forced her open palm between his legs once more.

By that time, the weak knight was unable to do anything but whimper. His eyes were unfocussed, and she patted him on the head like she would one of the hounds, hushing him quietly as she pressed a dirty piece of cloth into the gap in his cheek to help staunch the bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, several notes: 
> 
> First of all, if you skipped past the violent parts then to sum up, Alyssa very brutally beat up Meryn Trant. She punched his teeth in, messed up his face badly including tearing a hole in his cheek, and punched him in the groin a lot of times. If you did read the violent parts, I put a strong violence rating on this chapter for a reason and I will be interested to know what you think. Including how much of it you think Meryn Trant had coming.
> 
> Secondly, there shall be Sandor POV in the next chapter. Enough said about that for now, but it should be an interesting one considering this chapter. 
> 
> Thirdly, sorry that this chapter was very dark again. I swear I will give the characters some happiness soon. There was meant to be Sansa and Alyssa friendship in this one, but I don't see Sandor letting it happen at this point. No daughter of Gregor Clegane will be that close to his little bird.
> 
> Fourthly, I will be going off to uni on Friday so I'm not sure at all what the update schedule will be on this. I've got to figure out workload and everything before I even think about that. 
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	22. Part 3; The Fallen Kingsguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They recognized Meryn Trant by his armour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another update. It has been a while. 
> 
> Joffrey snuck in this one quite a bit. Sorry about that.

They recognized Meryn Trant by his armour. His face was unrecognizable, his teeth smashed in and his nose broken, deep cuts across his forehead and left cheek. His right cheek was worse, a massive hole torn into it, the flesh tattered and drooping.

It made Sandor uneasy to look at it, uneasy to think of it, even as he snarled at the gold cloaks for looking green. One of them had gagged and thrown up, and Sandor had felt a fury rise inside him and then that man was against the wall, apologies stuttering from his lips, although he refused to look at Meryn Trant. Or at him.

They recognized Meryn Trant by his armour. His armour was mostly unharmed. Except for the dents between his legs. Blood poured out from between them, from under Trant’s hands, and even Sandor could not make himself look.

It was his cock Trant clutched, as he moaned and whimpered through the hole in his cheek and the hole where his teeth once were. His eyes were reeling and unfocussed in the torchlight, and suddenly the heat was beginning to feel suffocating.

“Get him to a fucking maester,” Sandor snarled, and even then the goldcloaks were hesitant to obey, as if going near Meryn Trant or touching him would suddenly make them look the same. “Or I will tear your guts out through your neck and nobody will hear your screams either.” They were less than a hundred yards from the walls of the Red Keep, the gold cloaks must have heard the screaming even if they were asleep at their posts.

The gold cloaks finally moved to obey him, then he was gone. Away from the mess he knew Gregor’s daughter had left, simply because it reminded him so of Gregor. Except Gregor would not have stopped himself from destroying the armour, he would not have been so controlled. It mattered none. The brutality was there.

The door slammed loudly against the wall, and then he was at the counter. A flask of wine was in his hand before he could demand it, and he drained it in seconds. Then there was another there. It lasted no longer.

The first-time Tywin Lannister had lost control of Gregor, Gregor had been only a squire and another squire had been stupid enough to insult him. Gregor had punched the boy in the head hard enough that he’d never awoken, and Tywin had sent him back to Clegane Keep while he dealt with the boy’s family. It had been no more than a few months, so their father had simply told them all to pretend Gregor was meant to be visiting home. Sandor stopped that thought there.

There was no third flagon for him, and Sandor turned his head. The world spun. He had drunk those flagons fast, even for him, and he’d had no plan before to spend the night sober. Then the third one was pushed into his hands.

Alyssa had lasted no more than a few months either, although he could not recall how long she had been here. He should. He did not think even Gregor had torn a man’s cock off before. No, that wasn’t quite right. Depended whether ordering the Tickler to do something was the same as doing something himself.

 _She does not give one fuck about Meryn Trant,_ he thought, the bitter wine threatening to come back up the other way. She had done nothing before, but her suggestion for Gregor… not Gregor… anybody stronger than her. That was it, truly. Meryn Trant was nothing to Alyssa, but he was Kingsguard.

 _She’s not Gregor,_ Sandor thought. Gregor was never that controlled. He had never seen Gregor scheme. Every wound on Meryn Trant had been deliberate, or at least deliberately placed. They weren’t meant to be killing blows, but too many together, it would kill a man just as dead. As like or not Meryn Trant was not meant to survive, then she would have killed a Kingsguard and probably would get away with it. Unless they called Gregor back to King’s Landing. Sandor doubted there was any man willing to return Alyssa to her father as punishment. No man would return, between the two of them.

The third flagon was empty in front of him, and he stared at it. Alyssa did not care about Meryn Trant, she couldn’t, then Sandor was feeling cold even though it was far too fucking hot. He had threatened her, threatened her dead. The Imp would not allow Alyssa to harm Sansa, but that was as empty a reassurance as they came. The Imp would not have told Alyssa to hurt Meryn Trant, not the way that she did. Sandor knew the man, and had not known him to be that cruel, but even that was wrong. He was going to burn thousands of men alive. There was nothing crueller than that.

 _She won’t be stopped by a dwarf._ Sandor had even fucking spelled it out for her. Alyssa knew. Alyssa knew he cared about the little bird. The Imp with his Lannister name and all his Lannister gold could no longer control her.

He moved too quickly, the world spinning as he stood. _Only a fool would harm the future queen._ Sansa had said that, but those had been Alyssa’s words. Sansa had sounded so resigned when she’d said them. But Sansa was too innocent. She saw goodness where there was none. She could not spot a liar if they lied to her face, and Alyssa lied with untruths and general statements rather than blatant lies. Only a fool would harm the future queen. Aye, that was truth enough, if the future queen had the protection of her house rather than being ordered to be beaten. Alyssa would harm Sansa if it benefitted her, and Sansa still believed Alyssa’s fucking untruth.

His fist clenched around his sword and the cold air hit him in the face. Alyssa was not Gregor. She was a vicious cuntbitch, and there was no goodness there, but she stabbed a man in the back for fear of fighting him fair. She did not have near Gregor’s strength. If it was a fight she thought she could win, she would have fought him before or attacked him outright.

She was not in the training area. It was fool of him not to know where else she could be, where she frequented, except she only ever obeyed the Imp, trained and tended to her horse.

It was the little bird’s room he found himself outside instead, and he stumbled against the door.

“Fuck off,” he snarled the useless guard at the door, and the guard fled quickly enough. After the riots, Joffrey had made Sansa stand before the entire court and say what those dead men had done to her, and hearing it had made Sandor wish he could have killed them again. And the king, with the glee he took from it, the way he had mocked her after. Then he’d dismissed her with a wave, declaring that a septa had to confirm that she was not tainted beyond her Stark blood. The guard he had given her was practically a greenboy, weak as piss but apparently fitting for a tainted traitor. Even after the septa had confirmed that her maidenhead was intact, Joffrey had not bothered to give Sansa another guard. Alyssa could have killed that cunt without breaking a sweat. Sansa had believed her untruths. Alyssa would not even have to break down the door, just knock and tell Sansa to open it.

Sandor clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword, leaning against the wall as the world was spinning.

Somehow Gregor did care for her. Perhaps Gregor would even weep, when he sent him her head.

 

He awoke to sunlight, the smell of burning and Meryn Trant’s face. Only the sunlight remained after he woke truly, and he forced the rest from his mind. His mouth still tasted of ash, and he felt his lips curl. His head still pounded, and he reached for his wineskin. Forced himself not to drain it completely.

It took him a long moment to realize where he was. The corridor was no longer empty, with serving girls whispering to each other, going silent and not looking at him as they passed, then whispering again as they went about their duties. Sandor stumbled as he got up, which caused the serving girls to scamper. Sansa was not in her room, instead he only found a handmaiden cleaning her room.

“Where is Sansa Stark?” he snarled at her, and the woman looked at him.

“Lunch with the king,” she said boldly, and Sandor left her without a further word. Her being with Joffrey was better than her being with Alyssa, but not by much. At least Joffrey enjoyed hurting her and breaking her enough not to kill her.

“Were you in a winesink again? Ser Boros told me you were so drunk you passed out in front of my betrothed’s door,” Joffrey asked when he entered the solar, although he seemed more amused than anything. Sandor grimaced but did not speak. He could tell why Joffrey was so amused instantly, as Sansa was looking extremely pale and slightly sick. “I never knew she was so fond of Meryn Trant. Perhaps if I have you beat her she won’t fear you as much.”

“Is he alive?” Sandor asked, grinding his teeth at Joffrey’s comment. Sansa did not like she had eaten anything set in front of her; her plate was completely full.

“Mother says he’ll live,” Joffrey said, not seeming to care. “She’s has been telling me all morning how dangerous everything is now. She kept saying that I would be far safer with my uncle Jaime back. I am a king; I do not need to fear rats. Not when I have my sword. The master crafter is nearly done crafting the hilt.” Joffrey frowned. “Take her back to her room. I forgot, fine food is not to her taste. I should I have sent her the scraps.”

“I apologize, your Grace. I am just worried for Ser Meryn is all. I know he has always served you loyally and I hate the thought that you lose such a loyal man,” Sansa chirped, but with her paleness and slightly sick look Joffrey seemed to eat it up.

“You are stupid,” Joffrey declared, and Sandor stepped behind Sansa before it could go any further.

“Come along,” he said, and Sansa followed him obediently, not speaking when usually she would have chirped his ear off. She had been silent with him more often, since she had tried to give him his sigil. She had flinched when he had torn it apart, wept almost, but she had to get her head out of the clouds. Her family had abandoned her here, and Alyssa was no better than Gregor. This was different though. Sansa looked very pale, walking closer to him instead of keeping him at a distance. “What did he do to you?”

“H-his Grace was most kind. Nobody laid a hand on me,” Sansa said, her eyes fixed on the ground. “I… I would like to pray. Could you take me to the godswood, please?”

“You heard the king. You are going back to your room, little bird,” Sandor said, not as harshly as he usually did. She continued without speaking.

“Thank you,” Sansa said when she was back at her room, looking at him, and he could almost hear the rest of the courtesy although she managed to stop herself saying it. Then she lost her nerve again, looking to the ground. She spoke quickly. “I… I must speak with you. I know it is forward and improper, but can you please come into my room.”

Sandor found himself snorting, as there were far more improper things to be doing. Then he looked at her again, and he stepped inside quickly and barred the door shut behind them. Sansa suddenly looked nervous, and he felt his temper flare. She was the one who had asked him inside, and now was flinching away.

“She did this for me,” Sansa blurted, and Sandor felt himself tense, as surely she was not speaking about what he thought she was. His little bird would never do that. Sansa swallowed. “The first time I met Alyssa, she told me… she told me that Meryn Trant should fear me. That if I spoke to Joffrey the right way, I could get Joffrey to hurt him. H-he was frightened by a woman and a sellsword, and that would not make me feel safe, so make him fearsome to look upon. I told her I couldn’t do that. I didn’t, but she did it anyway. She did this for me, and I should have known she would. Shae did.”

“It is not your fault,” Sandor said, not sure why he felt the need to reassure her.

“No,” Sansa said. “When Shae told me, it… it felt like justice. Except it cannot be justice, not what Alyssa did to him. Joffrey said his face had been torn off, likely his… his manhood too. It’s not justice, it’s just cruelty against a cruel man. But…” She swallowed.

She did not finish, but she did not have to. His little bird had been so innocent, once. Alyssa had broken part of her simply by being close, because she was vicious and cruel whereas Sansa was kind and innocent. Sandor clenched his fists.

“She did not do it for you. It was not justice. Do not pretend she is the knight from one of your songs just because she hurt a monster,” he snarled. “She has burned and killed women and children both. She hurt Meryn Trant because he is Kingsguard, not because of you. Might be she pretends it was for you. That’d be something she’d do. Get in good with the future queen.”

Sansa looked up at him, her eyes oddly empty, but bolder than she had been before. “You are wrong. Forgive me… but you are. She was trying to help me before; I know she was.” She looked like she was going to say more, but he cut her off.

“She was not trying to help you,” Sandor said, low and cold, and Sansa took a step back. “Understand that or she will hurt you, and she will kill you.” He saw Gregor in her eyes every time she looked at him.

“Please promise me you won’t hurt her,” Sansa begged, and Sandor was out of the door ignoring her shocked cry. The sound of the door slamming echoed loudly in the corridor, but he remained by it.

He would guard her. But he would not promise her that.

 

Joffrey visited Meryn Trant later that day, Sandor at his heel. Grand Maester Pycelle was there to see them, although Joffrey did not care about anything he had to say, interrupting him with a bored ‘will he die?’ then barely listening to his response.

“I want to see him,” Joffrey said, and Pycelle took them into the next room. Meryn was lying on a bed covered in sheets, and his face was wrapped in thick bandages that had already turned to red. Pycelle was keeping him unconscious, as he had explained in a roundabout and doddering way. Joffrey frowned.

“Mother said his face had been torn off,” Joffrey said, giving Pycelle an annoyed look. “I want to see.”

“That would be unwise, your Grace,” Pycelle started, and Joffrey’s lips twisted back into a sneer.

“Who are you to question your king?” Joffrey said.

“But I will of course do as I am bid,” Pycelle continued as if he had not stopped talking, moving to obey. Joffrey watched with a childlike fascination as Pycelle unwrapped the bandages, Meryn Trant moaning without waking. It was the same look Joffrey had when he tormented Sansa, the same look he’d had as a child when he’d cut the kittens out of that pregnant cat’s belly or ordered one of the servants flogged for not catering to his whims quickly enough. Cersei had always encouraged such behaviour in him, saying it was his right as a prince.

And then the smell hit him and Sandor felt sick. She had left Meryn Trant’s eyes. That was all she had left him. His lips curled into the gap where his teeth had been, his nose was bloody and broken and his cheeks had been shredded. The hole in his cheek had been closed, and the smell of burned flesh was there. Sandor forced himself to breathe through his mouth so he would not smell it, but then he could almost taste it. It hung in the air, suffocating.

“He looks like he’s been torn apart by a wild animal,” Joffrey said, and he was still amused. His eyes glinted. “Find me who did this. I want them brought to me.”

Sandor clenched his fists. He would not give Joffrey Alyssa. Alyssa was his. He left Joffrey then, obedient, always obedient, leaving Joffrey grinning at what she had done. He would send the next Kingsguard he found in Joffrey’s direction, although they were scarce now, and he would kill Alyssa.

But he did not find her, or search. He imagined punching her until her body became pulp. She was weak. She would not be able to fight him, not truly, he could do as he pleased. He imagined holding her down. He imagined burning her, like he would Gregor, then he felt sick and he slammed his fist into the wall. Pain erupted from his knuckles and he did not care, bile still threatening to rise up the back of his throat. He would not hold her down and burn her. He would not do that.

He did not find her. He drank until the smell faded, until he forgot about Alyssa, then he found Boros Blount in the training area and beat him up instead. And every other cunt stupid enough to try to face him.

Gregor had killed their sister. Their mother too, near enough, but it was their sister he had killed for true. Sandor had never seen her after, could not recall the last time he had spoken to her. She had been there, the only one who had never looked at him differently, the only one who would still stay with him and play with him and not be repulsed. She had been there, and Gregor had been there. He had not heard her screaming, though half the keep had. She had just been dead. Gregor had smashed her skull in.

But it was not the same. Alyssa was not Elara. Alyssa deserved to die.

That was stupid. People did not get what they deserved. There was no justice. He was a fucking fool if he did not know that, when even the little bird did.

There was no justice. The Spider told Joffrey, and Sandor clenched his fists when the eunuch was speaking but he did not move. He just let Joffrey prepare his game.

 

The Imp had known. Whether he had ordered it or not, he knew now. He had not been surprised.

“You attacked one of my Kingsguard,” Joffrey said, perched on the Iron Throne. Sandor was standing to his right, behind Sansa. Joffrey had not given her a stool to sit on this time, so she stood as straight as she could. Sansa seemed to have straightened even more at the question, even if it was not her at Joffrey’s mercy. It was Alyssa on her knees.

They had taken her shield and weapons, but not by force. They had not told her to kneel. They would likely have forced her to her knees, but she had already got to her knees. Nobody had gone near her.

Everybody had heard what had happened to Meryn Trant. Alyssa just glared, and nobody moved to approach her.

“I served you,” she ground out, and even her tone mimicked Gregor. Sandor heard Sansa’s intake of breath. “Your Grace.”

“You attacked one of my Kingsguard _and you say you served me_?” Joffrey said.

“He was weak,” she said coldly, so coldly that Joffrey looked sort of frightened. “I made him stronger. If he lives, he will be worthy to guard a king.”

Joffrey watched her, took one look at Sandor then started laughing.

“Any guard weak enough to be beaten by a bitch whore is not fit for a king,” Joffrey said, and Sandor tensed. Alyssa did not react, and Sandor watched her. There was nothing in her eyes, where before there had been fury. “But you still took something from me. So you must be punished. Traitors must be punished. Isn’t that right, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa stiffened. “That is correct, your Grace.”

“How do you think I should punish her? She took something that is rightfully mine,” Joffrey said.

“I-I don’t know, your Grace,” Sansa said.

“I could make her look like him,” Joffrey suggested, still watching Sansa. Then he eyed the Hound. “Or I could make her look like _him._ I could have them skin her alive, or I could throw her into the black cells to rot? What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, desperately. She was trembling. Alyssa was watching them directly now, her cold gaze on them, and Sandor stepped so that he was even closer behind Sansa.

“Joffrey, perhaps sending her back to her father is for the best,” Cersei said. Joffrey waved her away, his eyes still glinting with amusement, not noticing how tense everybody else had become.

“Enough,” the Imp said, and Joffrey frowned. “I shall punish her.”

“She’s mine to punish!” Joffrey said. Then he grinned. “But I shall be merciful. My uncle can keep his precious bitch, and I will even give her something. I want another dog.” He tried to look bored, but failed. “Get her out of her armour. The first man to put a pup into her gets a lordship.”

For a moment, everybody seemed frozen. Some of the gold cloaks took a step forwards, then stopped, uncertain and slightly frightened. Cersei’s mask had frozen, and the Imp looked absolutely outraged.

And Alyssa smiled. It was a cold smile, and there was nothing in her eyes. The gold cloaks were lost and uncertain, she was not. There where twenty of them and one of her, but Joffrey had ordered her alive. She would be alive at the end.

“Alright then. Now, which of you is going to explain to Gregor Clegane that you gang raped his daughter. And who is going to stand between him and the king when he finds out who ordered it?” The Imp looked around. “No volunteers. Hound?” Sandor glared at him, but nodded. “That’s exactly the type of yes I would give when my sister summons me. Nobody else?”

“Gregor Clegane is not here. I am here and I am the king,” Joffrey said, but he was pale now. “You are all cowards. It is an honour to fight and die for your king.”

“Exactly how long will you remain king if you make an enemy of all your allies,” the Imp said. “How long will men remain loyal to you when serving you means certain death?” Joffrey just gaped at him. “Alyssa, with me.”

Alyssa stood, followed. Nobody dared approach her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, definitely been a while. Tell me what you think. 
> 
> The next chapter should be Alyssa POV then Sansa POV. It's nearly the end of term now so it should not be as long.


	23. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A queen should know the suffering of her people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took far longer than I was expecting. I’m very very busy at the moment so the next update might be a while again. Anyway, enjoy the chapter and I hope people are still reading this.

It was cold, out in the darkness. Colder than it had been the previous night. The children still came, because they knew her, they knew she was weak enough to feed them. She clenched her fists, and the pain was fire. It did not make her any warmer.

The cunt king was weak. The dwarf was weak. She’d never noticed it more than when he had smacked her, as there was no impact behind it. He had been angry, but she could not recall his words. She had been too busy focussing herself, too busy trying not to hit back, although she had stood and he had been in the air then with his feet dangling. Tyrion had not done it hard. He was just weak, and small. She could break him as easily as she could lift him, but he was a Lannister. A fucking weak little Lannister, but a Lannister all the same.

She had abandoned him and her food and walked out, collecting something from the kitchens after. The girls in the kitchen all feared her now. It was for the best.

The children didn’t. They should.

‘Lord Tyrion is one of the few men who is able to make this city a better place,’ the eunuch had said. ‘To hear it, he has found himself a mad dog. He can keep his pet, but it is very much for the best that he is able to keep it on a leash. Or a mad dog may very easily seem a lost dog, and I’d hate to think what would happen to it then.’ A warning, not a threat, he had claimed, but they were the same. Warnings were only threats you did not want to carry out, or threats where the other person was too weak to stop you.

The Spider was trusted absolutely, for all he claimed not to be. Everybody trusted the eunuch, his words or his ‘whispers’, and she would be a fool if she thought he would be hesitant to have her killed.

She did have food with her, but she watched them. _Do you belong to the eunuch?_ She clenched her fist, grimacing. They were wary, warier than before, and she forced herself not to glare in case they would flee. Except if they hadn’t fled by now, they would not.

The eunuch was a dangerous man. A smart man too if he knew half as much as everyone thought he did. The two smartest men in the city were a dwarf and eunuch from Essos somewhere with one name.

She had to let him threaten her. _Do you belong to the eunuch?_ Or she could show him that she would not be threatened. She clenched her fist again, hissing and biting her lip. He did not care about her, as long as she did not interfere with whatever it was he was planning.

_Do you belong to the eunuch?_ She watched them as they ate. She knew nothing of most of them. Most of them wouldn’t have anybody left though, only themselves. Nobody she could catch if she could not catch them.

She wondered who the eunuch asked of.

She did not speak, for if she did, he would know. Because some of them worked for him. That she was sure of now. Perhaps they all belonged to the eunuch. It had been foolish for her ever to believe otherwise. She clenched her fist again, and asked of the Hound. That was what she always did.

The Hound drank himself into a stupor more often then not, and when he didn’t he guarded Sansa. Alyssa told herself she did not care. He had passed out in front of Sansa’s door, and Sansa foolishly trusted him. _She’s a proper highborn lady._ That would have been trained into her. _It would be most fucking improper to let a man into your room._ She would keep the door barred and him out.

None of that would stop him from raping her the moment the king called for it. Sansa had King Waters, who was like Gregor only he was weak and knew less of brutality, but he was king and that was all that mattered.

She did care. It was fucking foolish of her to care of Lady Sansa who was near as highborn as highborn could be. Safe as could be too, if she stayed in the castle with high walls. But it would make no matter when Stannis came and everything burned. There was no safety.

Was there even any point feeding them if they would all burn? _Wildfire cannot be stopped, once burning._ Perhaps that meant it was faster. If they were lucky, they would burn fast.

The Spider knew near everything, if he cared to know it. Everyone trusted the eunuch.

So it was truly only the children she taught the Riverlands Song to, although she spoke the words instead of giving them the merry tune.

It had been the best feeling, Meryn Trant’s face tearing under her fingers. It had been the best sound, hearing him scream. She had slept that night with his screams in her ears, she had dreamt of him begging for mercy and pissing himself, his blood coating her fingers and her arms and the rest of her. It had been a good dream. It would have been a good sleep, had it lasted for more than two hours. Nothing had brought her greater pleasure in years. Nothing that wasn’t make belief. She found herself glad that he was not dead. She could keep going, because he was weak and she was stronger.

That was what the strong always did to the weak. The children looked frightened then, although they remained for the food. That was good.

 

He was weak. Unimportant too, not Kingsguard or gold cloak or highborn. She forced her thumbs through his eyes, either grinning or grimacing as he screamed. He was nothing. She kicked him to the ground, drawing her shortsword although she used her fists more than she used the blade.

There was nothing gallant about her. The first thing she had done was drive her sword through the woman’s chest, but that was the only mercy there was. It had been a coldness, a fury, but she did not care now. This was better than sparring, except they were weak.

_Three._ She blocked the impact, the agony making her stumble although the force hadn’t been great. They were on her, one of them punching her in the face although the helm took much of the impact. She meant to punch him, although it was the blade that caught him first, slicing through his face and skull. That placed her in the middle, and she cursed herself quickly but it made no matter.

They were nothing. It took just two more slices of her blade. The agony was nothing, it would fade. She clenched her fist again, grimacing. She could not go to a maester. Even if the eunuch knew, he could not know how weak she was. Nobody knew that but her.

Alyssa wiped the blood off her blade using the tatty shirt of one of the men before sliding it back into its sheath. The fourth man was still moaning, but blinded and flailing on the ground. She kicked him and he screamed, then she yanked her sword from the woman’s chest and the ground beneath and drove it through the gap where one of his eyes had been.

That time the Riverlands Song was merry. She hummed it, biting her lip to stop from laughing and only then realizing that it was already bloody. She hummed it as she let her anger out on the bodies, although she did not even know if it was anger that she was feeling. What else would they expect from Gregor Clegane’s bastard? It was not dangerous that she had beaten one of the fucking Kingsguard, no. Give a green boy a sword and he could probably beat Meryn Trant. It was dangerous if there was a reason.

Gregor had raped and killed a fucking princess without consequence, but nobody would ever think that he plotted against the king. He was not a smart man, he just destroyed, fucked and killed.

The Hound wasn’t that. The Hound was just weak. He snarled at men instead of killing them proper. If the Hound was Gregor, Waters would be burning men. She could almost hear Waters sneer, as the handsome weak little Lannister wondered what was wrong with the Hound’s face. She could almost hear his curiosity, asking gleefully how much it hurt. How the Hound had stopped Joffrey from setting people on fire she could not guess.

Her fist ached, and she smiled for that was Meryn Trant. Her right fist was already bruised as he’d worn armour, and then she was laughing. If she had any intelligence to her she would not be here. Perhaps the Vale, but no, if there was anywhere better to flee for people with no home than King’s Landing doubtlessly all the smallfolk would not just be fleeing to King’s Landing.

The wildfire would be fast. That was the only mercy there was.

 

By the time morning came, she was only cold. She stuffed her face with food without looking at Tyrion, and oddly even Tyrion was silent. He pretended to read a scroll he had set in front of him, but she knew he wasn’t reading it as she could feel his eyes on her. Bronn seemed far too entertained by the apple he wasn’t eating, as he tossed it up and down without taking a bite. He had spoken to her, after the weak little cunt of a king had tried to punish her.

‘You tore the face off one of the Kingsguard?’ Bronn had said, not truly caring. Tyrion had been angry, but Bronn had just raised his eyebrows and given her a smirk. Then asked the question. Alyssa had glared at him.

‘And I destroyed his cock,’ she’d said emotionlessly, and somehow that had just made him smirk more. At that moment, she had wanted nothing more than to smash his smug lips in.

‘Should I be worried?’ he had asked.

‘I did not like his face,’ she’d said. ‘I like yours.’ The words had been out before she could stop them, and Bronn’s amusement had only grown.

‘And my cock?’ Bronn had asked, his tone had made her face feel like it was heating up. He had seen her weak, before. Far too weak. His touch had made her tremble, far gentler than that of Gregor or his men but reminded her of them all the same. Yet there was part of her that still yearned for it, just wanted to curl up into a tight ball and let him make her feel oddly… safe. But that was foolishness. She’d clenched her fist.

‘Touch me and your cock will look worse than Trant’s,’ Alyssa had just said, and that had stopped his words.

“I will not let them send you back to Gregor,” Tyrion said eventually, and Alyssa failed to look at him. She did not need his Lannister lies. “Alyssa, look at me.” She clenched her fist and obeyed, because what else was she to do for a Lannister who paid her. Concern flashed across his face, although he scowled. “Which part was it about me telling you not to get into fights or hurting people that was a struggle for you?”

“They will all burn,” she said, and she saw Tyrion’s reaction to that too. “Less painful to be run through than burned. You can tell by the way they scream.” Not everybody burned badly enough to die, not at first. Those would scream until they grew hoarse, but there were enough, and even the hoarse screams were loud.

She clenched her fist, gritting her teeth but she needed the pain. The pain kept her awake if nothing else, even if she did not want it to, but it was day now and she had to be awake. The guilt in Tyrion’s eyes was back to concern, and she looked away. Continued to eat, tearing at the meat with her teeth and stuffing chunks of bread into her mouth.

“One would think that by now I would have given up on any attempt to teach a dog table manners,” Tyrion said, and then Bronn smirked.

“Pay her,” Bronn said. “Or better yet, pay me. I’ll train her for you.”

“ _Train_ her? What exactly do you intend to do?” Tyrion asked, feigning surprise.

“Hide half the coin, pretend the remaining half was all you gave me, then pay her,” Bronn said.

Alyssa ignored them, focussing on the pain instead. The rest of the day she guarded Tyrion, unspeaking even when he tried to speak to her. She listened. _The Mountain’s bastard. The Mountain’s wayward daughter._ Bastard was better than daughter, for daughters were weak and bastards were treacherous, but she liked the second one. It meant that the Mountain could not control his weak little girl, and she smirked when she heard it.

The following day, the future queen summoned her.

“The Lady Sansa wishes to speak to you,” Tyrion told her after he had finished taking her in, and Alyssa had just looked at him. He did not seem to be lying, but she doubted it was the will of the future queen.

Alyssa clenched her fist. It was nothing to her. She nodded.

“She has not taken what you did to Meryn Trant well,” Tyrion said. “Joffrey took her down to see him, before he knew it was you. He told her that was what they would have done to her, had he not sent his dog to save her.” It would have been better if Waters had been the one to send the Hound.

_They want to fuck her. Best keep her face pretty for that,_ Alyssa thought, clenching her fist tightly and gritting her teeth. Then she swallowed, as Sansa had seen. Of course, Sansa would see eventually, when Meryn’s wounds had scarred, and the future queen could not be weak. It was for the best that she had seen.

_She will believe the Hound now, doubtless._ That thought made her go cold, but it was nothing new. She did not care. It was nothing to her. No more pretence. She just nodded again without saying a word.

 

“Please, sit,” Sansa said, perfect in her highborn manners. Alyssa obeyed, sat, and the chair creaked under her weight. It was hard not to lean back and close her eyes, but then she clenched her fist and the pain dealt with that foolishness. Sansa hesitated, afraid to speak, as if it would ever have been any different. _I don’t care._ She was summoned, nothing more.

“It was for me,” Sansa said eventually, and Alyssa glared. Except it was fucking stupid. Nobody could think she had done it for Sansa Stark. And she remembered Sansa’s look, the look before the mask too, the disgust and the guilt. “Why did you… hurt… Ser Meryn?”

“He was a cunt,” Alyssa snarled. “He fucks little girls. He likes to beat them, he likes to break them. You are just the highborn he cannot truly touch.”

Sansa swallowed, her look becoming distant, and pain shot up Alyssa’s arm without her even having to clench her fist. She clenched her jaw, then her fist, grimacing and letting it focus her. It was like forcing herself to grasp a flame.

Sansa didn’t know. She was a fucking spoiled highborn little girl, and she did not know. She was a prisoner, but they still needed her cunt to get Winterfell, and there were those who remembered even if Waters forgot. Alyssa cursed herself, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough that she tasted blood. It was only Tyrion. The rest would have left her in the riots.

_She is safe as can be. She is safe as can be or she will burn quick._

“I…” Sansa said, her voice trembling, and Alyssa had to clench her fist again. She stood before she noticed she was on her feet, then Sansa’s wrist was in her hand, her grip tightening even further at Sansa’s whimper.

They would not kill her. She was Gregor Clegane’s daughter, and not one of them would be fool enough to take her back to him. Fear had even flashed in the cunt king’s face, when Waters had given them the order they had all hesitated. All she would have needed was one sword, from the first.

“I can give Trant mercy,” Alyssa snarled, and Sansa gasped. “Say the word, and I’ll kill him quick. That’s the only mercy there is.” The future queen looked utterly disgusted, her eyes becoming wet with tears.

“That was what Joffrey said,” Sansa said, sounding distant. “About Father. When he took Father’s head.” And Alyssa found herself laughing. It was Tyrion who wrapped the future queen in silk, and the future queen hated her anyway. _I do not care._ If her mother’s death had been fast, it would have been a mercy. If Lorena’s death had been fast, it would have been a mercy. The Hound had killed that pretence anyway.

“There are worse ways to die,” Alyssa said. “Do you know how my father kills them?” Sansa did not seem to be able to speak. She looked utterly terrified, then shook her head quickly, trembling. The future queen was near highborn as highborn could be, and none of the highborns gave a fuck up in their castles. The villages would burn, and they would weep over the lost coin. Alyssa spat. “They are your mother’s people. A queen should know the suffering of her people.”

“Alyssa, please stop. You are frightening me,” Sansa said, trying to keep her voice even, and Alyssa clenched her fist, clenching her teeth at the pain.

“They look worse than Trant,” Alyssa ground out. “Most of them were not pretty to start. Some were. They would take turns, unless Gregor claimed her. If she screamed too loud, might be they hack out her tongue.” Some of them liked the sound of screams. One woman, almost a child, pretty face and dark hair, had screamed for so loud and so long as Raff had fucked her, until Alyssa had driven her sword through her skull then her elbow into Raff’s nose. First time she had intervened, first near only time she had stopped them, and only the anger had stopped the fear. Snarled about getting a headache, that he was lucky she was not Gregor or he would have a broken skull not a broken nose.

“Some would be taken as prisoners, if they survived the raid. Each day, the Tickler would torture some. Gregor chose them, usually. If a woman tried to hide her child, he would shove her aside and drag the child out. Had them torture the child, and when the child finally stopped screaming he would rape the woman as well.” Sansa was properly weeping now, trying weakly to pull free. Alyssa pushed her back and she fell onto the bed, letting out a cry. Her wrist had gone red, and Alyssa clenched her fist tightly to stop the sudden fear. The future queen. Alyssa could touch the future queen no more than she could touch anything of Gregor’s. Then she was laughing again, cold and bitter. She was fool to be here. Someone would kill her, or Gregor would when he came. She should still be in the Riverlands. It was safer that way.

She could almost see it, still. She could almost smell the flames, taste the smoke, hear the screams, feel the sword in her hand. She clenched her fist again, bringing her right hand to the hilt of her sword although she did not draw it. She had felt nothing. Most of the time, she had felt nothing, only numbness and anger, except at the start and at the end. It was as easy as sliding her sword through a target of hay, only afterwards she had to clean off the blood. Brutality was easy. She knew it, and none cared if the shattered bones were before or after the torn open throat. It had been nothing.

“Sometimes I chose them,” Alyssa snarled, biting her lip to stop more laughter. “Gregor’s _gift_ to me. If I was lucky, there would be a man. I would spit and call him a craven. Gregor had to like my choice. The men were most all with your brother.”

Her hands were tremoring and she clenched her fists, hissing and feeling her face grow warm. The future queen. The fucking future queen. The fucking future queen, a Tully through her mother, lady of the Riverlands surely as much as the north. _The future queen. The future queen has to know the suffering of her people._ No doubt the Hound had already said, when he had tried to convince Sansa that she was basically Gregor. Except Sansa did not seem to know. _She was always going to fear me. She was always going to hate me._

“They died slow. They died screaming, covered in their own shit and piss and blood. That’s what war is, if you aren’t a highborn in a castle. W-we burned the Riverlands, but a hundred others would have done near the same,” Alyssa spat, furious at the tremor in her voice. She swallowed, and it was as if she was still there. She should never have left. If she could have kept her temper, it would have been safer. Gregor she knew. “They burned. Some houses would be boarded up with people still inside, set alight. Mothers and their children, beaten and raped, eyes gouged and skulls smashed in. I killed the children first, slitting their throats deep, they would not see their mothers die.” She spat again. “Mercy.”

“I use my sword. Mercy. I snap their necks. Mercy. They are dead when I break their bones, before I tear off their limbs. I do not rape them, I do not tear off their breasts or flay them or beat them to death. I don’t feed the babes to the flames. _Mercy,_ ” Alyssa spat. “They do. They think I’m jealous. That I don’t have the parts for rape. That I can’t join in their fun. That that’s why I kill a lot of them. That’s best.” Fuck, it would be better if Sansa thought that too. Bastards were treacherous. She had to be her father’s bastard, or none would fear her. The Hound though her Gregor, but he feared Gregor. He had not approached her, he had not tried to kill her.

Alyssa could no longer fight the laughter. Wetness ran down her cheeks and she wiped at it angrily. There was not much. She clenched her fist again. She was not weak.

“Those highborns in their castles. They closed their doors. Hid behind their walls,” Alyssa said. “They did not get mercy. Gregor liked it, that his daughter was stronger than their sons. They died all the same. They burned all the same, except they had good silver.” She had kept the silver, at the beginning, as plunder. Towards the end she burned it, or tossed it into the river with the bodies. She’d had no need for coin then, and no care for it. Everything was blood, and she had to make sure it was theirs that spilled not hers.

She continued, the words coming from her mouth, feeling colder and colder as she spoke. Only vaguely was she aware that Sansa was still there. _She’s going to order me dead._ But somehow, she could not bring herself to care.

 

Sansa wished so badly that she could ask her father about Alyssa. He had always known what to do. She wondered if he would execute Alyssa for her crimes, or pardon her based on the circumstances of them.

Sansa wept when Alyssa spoke, unladylike upset weeping. Alyssa had started cold, started angry, ‘a queen should know the suffering of her people’, but then something in her voice had broken, and every time she laughed it had sounded more and more unhinged. Alyssa did not even look angry anymore, she looked tormented. Her eyes were distant, her voice was hoarse, she sounded like she was describing something she was seeing rather than remembering.

Sansa wished that her father was there, but he was dead and there was only her. Joffrey had taken his head and forced her to look at it, but he had not made her see it. He couldn’t, no more than Alyssa could make her hear what she was saying. She heard Alyssa’s words as much as she let herself hear their mockery in court, forcing herself not to feel anything. Sansa wiped her own tears away, tried to put her mask back into place, until Alyssa fell into silence, completely unmoving.

There was no anger left in her eyes, and anger was her shield. Sansa startled at that realisation, but it was certainly the same for the Hound as well. Anger was Alyssa’s shield, coldness as well, but her shield was completely down now. It was all in the eyes. Alyssa looked very old and very beaten down, haunted and pained. Resigned too, the same way Father had looked just before they had taken his head. He had known it to be coming. Alyssa looked like someone who was awaiting execution. _I could break her completely with just a few words,_ Sansa realized, and that realization was terrifying.

The Hound was wrong, he had to be. Sansa had seen it before, and she should not have believed him, as the Hound did not know what kindness and goodness looked like. He’d had so little of it in his life. Alyssa was not a bad person, although what she had done was horrifying.

‘I think Alyssa cares for you, despite herself,’ Shae had said, when Sansa had asked her about Alyssa. ‘But she does not know what to do with that, or how to care for people. They would have beaten that out of her. Alyssa has done some truly horrible things, but I know bad people, and she hides behind cruelty rather than being cruel.’

“Mercy,” Alyssa said again, and there was no force behind her words, only a broken resignation. _Mercy._ Sansa had never thought of mercy like that before, she couldn’t. Alyssa had to be wrong. “A quick death is the only mercy I can give.”

“H-how many did you kill?” Sansa asked, although she knew she would regret the question. Father had sent men out after the Mountain and his men, but she had never thought about Alyssa doing those things. She should have known.

Alyssa just shook her head. “I don’t know.”

_I am just a stupid girl,_ Sansa thought, trying not to cry. She did not even know that it was possible not to know. Father knew. When he executed someone as a traitor, he knew who they were. She was sure he also knew how many.

“You stop thinking,” Alyssa said, then swallowed. “I don’t remember all of it.” Her hands were trembling again, and then anger was back in her eyes and she moved very quickly towards the door.

“Alyssa!” Sansa blurted out before she could stop herself, and Alyssa froze. She was not sure what to think, or what to say. It wasn’t mercy, it couldn’t be. What Alyssa had done to Meryn Trant felt almost like justice, and Sansa had hated herself for feeling that way. It was like she was almost as bad as Joffrey or Cersei, enjoying somebody else’s suffering. What sort of a horrible person would she be if she forgave what Alyssa had done, the mass killing of innocent people. But Alyssa was not at fault, Alyssa cared for her, Alyssa wanted to help her. There was goodness there. Sansa could not imagine what it would be like to grow up with Gregor as a father, what Gregor must have done to her. Alyssa looked like she had not slept in days. The dark circles looked like they were imprinted under her eyes, and there was a large part of Sansa that just wanted to make her suffering stop. She just didn’t have any idea what to do. _A queen should know the suffering of her people._

Sansa got up. Her ribs hurt, her back hurt. Her skin was beginning to bruise from where Alyssa had grabbed her wrist. Sansa walked up to Alyssa.

“I do not fear you,” Sansa said, and she found that to be true. The desperately hopeful look in Alyssa’s eyes was painful.

“Don’t lie,” Alyssa begged, looking surprised at her own words. She grimaced.

“I do not fear you,” Sansa repeated, more certain this time. “Could you please come back tomorrow? I would be very grateful if you would help me.” Alyssa’s eyes bore into hers, and Sansa looked back, trying to ignore the guilt that she could feel in her stomach. Sansa saw Alyssa’s expression change as she slowly started to believe it, then she nodded.

“I am sorry,” Alyssa said, her voice breaking and tears coming to her eyes. Nobody could fake that pain, or that gratefulness. Alyssa put her helm back on and left quickly, before Sansa could say any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be less dark. The characters will have some happiness soon. 
> 
> Let me know what you think :)


	24. Cruelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa crumbles. Sansa invites her to the Godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still dark, but (hopefully) getting more hopeful!
> 
> And warnings for Alyssa's mental state, especially towards the beginning.

Alyssa wept. It was still the smoke she smelled, the ash she tasted. She could barely breathe, her vision was blurry, and she barely knew where she was only she somehow ended up in her room once more. It was only the helm that shielded her weakness, although she could not even recall if she had passed anyone. The door slammed shut behind her, and she barred it with shaking hands.

_She does not fear me._

Alyssa tried to make herself stop shaking, tried to force her breathing to steady. Sansa didn’t fear her. Alyssa took another shaky breath, clinging to the thought. It could not be true. Alyssa grunted at the pain as she clenched her fist again, and then she was sobbing and shaking. She could hear the screams still. The exhaustion was overwhelming, even with the pain, but when she closed her eyes she could still see it. Sansa couldn’t see it. Alyssa couldn’t describe it, not properly, and even then Sansa had been weeping.

She should never have run, never have left. That was a jape of the gods. Before the Riverlands had been her days, now they were her nights. But in her room nobody could see her. Alyssa remembered the fury she had felt, that she had just wanted Sansa to stop being so fucking stupid and innocent, but she hadn’t expected speaking of it almost be like being there. She had forgotten Sansa had even been there for most of it.

_She does not fear me._

Her breaths were coming no easier. She still felt like she was suffocating, suffocating on ash that was not even there. Of course Sansa didn’t fear her, she was so fucking weak.

She slammed the heel of her left hand hard into the wood. The pain was horrible, an explosion from her arm that felt like it was consuming her. Her vision went black, then the next thing she knew she was on her knees gasping for breath. Her body still tremored, and her fingers protested when she tried clench her fist again. Perhaps she succeeded, except her vision blackened again and the ground met her.

The agony distracted her. At least the pain was there, worse than it had ever been in the Riverlands. Maester Tomas, he had said it would never stop. Never believed her when she said it had. Gregor had allowed her some milk of the poppy at first, but she had not remained on it for long. It frightened her. She did not want to be like Gregor, not like that, nor take his supply. No matter what Maester Tomas had given her she had always been in pain, and she wanted him now. He would patch her up, and not tell any of the Lannisters. Perhaps. She was not even sure what he told Gregor. But that was wrong. Nobody could know.

She just lay there, unable to bring herself to move. The pain stopped her from sleeping, but her lids were heavy and every time she closed her eyes all she could see was the children. Like the ones in King’s Landing, no different really, except she remembered driving her sword through them or snapping her necks. They held her down, enough that she could not move, more coming as there were too many. Some of them did not even have faces, only burns where there faces should have been, all silent. Their nails trailed across her skin, and they were touching her arm or setting it on fire and she just started whimpering, begging them all to stop. Until she tried to force herself upwards, the agony making everything else fade, then there was nothing and all she could do was stare at the ceiling.

Eventually there was a knock on her door, and Alyssa forced herself to move. Her limbs felt leaden, her entire body ached, except for the wildfire that had attached itself beneath her left elbow. Even letting her left arm hang limply by her side made her hiss out in pain with every jarring motion. Cradling it was little better, and it made her injury too obvious. Perhaps she could make the pain stop. She did likely have some of Gregor’s supply. She had taught that one to Joss, that when Gregor wanted milk of the poppy he wanted it now, but not in a way that made him think that you were trying to steal it for yourself.

The knock came again, and she moved like she had the first time she had worn armour. Her armour had been too heavy for her, once. Tyrion’s squire stood there, looking startled although he was the one who had knocked.

“Ser, my lady,” Podrick Payne said, and she was glad he was already frightened of her. For he would not fear her now. “My lord wishes to see you for dinner.” It had been morning when Sansa had summoned her.

Alyssa gave him a nod, forcing herself to follow.

“Are you well?” the squire asked meekly, proper concern in his voice. Alyssa did not respond, and he did not ask again.

She smelled the food first, and it made her stomach turn. She had been in King’s Landing for near two moons and she had made the most of the plentiful food. It was the one thing that kept the exhaustion at bay, and she had gained some weight in case she had to flee, but now she found herself completely without hunger. The food had been placed on the end of the table. Tyrion himself did not even have a glass of wine in hand; instead he was surrounded by scrolls and parchment and books on war.

He took her in, then held up a coin.

“Sit, Alyssa,” he said, and Alyssa was too exhausted to do anything but obey. He poured himself a drink, then to her surprise slid it over to her. He poured himself another, and started to drink. Alyssa looked at the wine, then slowly reached out to take it. “Drink, it will help with what’s on your mind.”

She pressed the glass to her lips, then drank. When she placed the glass back down it was empty, and Tyrion poured her more. She took another drink, and it was beginning to make her feel warm. Tyrion matched her, pouring again. If she was drunk, they were more like to kill her, like Sansa should have. That thought surprised her and she drank again, pushing it away. She moved the clench her fist, and pain shot up her arm before her fingers had even twitched. At least that time her vision didn’t blacken, but she could not stop the hiss escaping through her teeth. More wine dealt with that. She had only been drunk once. Sansa should have killed her though. She’d stopped caring then, before, in the Riverlands, about her life.

“Eat something as well. If you drink too much without eating, you will feel worse in the morning. Believe me, I know,” Tyrion said, and she looked up again. “Now, you get better at just about anything with experience, and few can match me when it comes to drink. Heed my advice, Alyssa.” He took another look at her. “Bronn’s keeping guard tonight, and four Stone Crows. If someone sneaks past my guard, it’ll be me they want to kill, not you.”

“Why am I here?” Alyssa asked, trying to get her voice cold. Instead she just sounded weary.

“Because it seems like we both need a drink,” Tyrion said. “And I can’t possibly eat an entire chicken all by myself. I’m only a small man, after all.”

 _He’s already been in his cups,_ Alyssa realized, despite how she had found him. The scrolls he had around him looked like maps of a sort, and she glanced at them. King’s Landing. She had been in the city long enough now to recognize it.

“Do you think I am a cruel man?” Tyrion asked, and part of her regretted the coldness of her words the previous day. Fuck, she truly was weak if she regretted telling a dwarf the truth. Alyssa took another drink, finding that the glass in front of her was once again full. When she placed in back on the table it was empty.

“You must stop Stannis,” Alyssa said, and her voice sounded a bit weird. The wildfire was made, and it was better that Stannis burned rather than the city, but that would do little to reassure the man who had made it. It was a good way to do it, if he managed to stop the city burning along with Stannis’s men. She had heard they worshiped a fire god of some sort. _Send them to their god._ She almost laughed.

“That has done little to reassure me, if I am honest,” Tyrion said. “But I am not asking about Stannis.” It was as if he suddenly seemed even more nervous and weary, although he tried to keep his tone light. “Every now and then I try not to think about my goodbrother. My family is messed up enough without me constantly thinking about my goodfamily as well.” He suddenly paused, and it felt abrupt, because before he had been speaking so quickly. “Just answer me, Alyssa. Do you think me cruel?”

“You are not a cruel man,” Alyssa said. It was not a question she had to think of the answer to.

“Do you think I am a smart man?” Tyrion asked, and Alyssa nodded. He was the smartest man she had ever met. Tyrion remained silent for too long, and Alyssa knew it to be about her. She tried to clench her fist, the pain making her vision swim. She felt heat creeping up her face, and she looked away, to stop Tyrion from seeing. _And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low._

“I know enough of Gregor Clegane. If I sent you back to him, I would be a very cruel man,” Tyrion said.

“Don’t,” she snarled at him, and he raised both of his hands as if in surrender, concern showing in his eyes.

“Alright, that’s good, I’m glad I am a smart man but not a cruel man,” Tyrion announced. “When you spend half the afternoon failing to figure out how to burn people to death it is somewhat a hard thing to remember, you must grant me.”

“You know how to burn people to death,” Alyssa said, and perhaps it was the wine that made her speak. Last time, it had just been fury. Now she felt… exhausted, drained. “It’s not hard. The easiest thing to do right now will be to burn Stannis and this city both. It’ll stop Stannis from taking the Iron Throne. Move the king and the most important lords and ladies away, and let everybody else burn. What you are doing, is trying not to burn this city.”

Tyrion looked shocked, but it seemed to have made him feel the slightest bit better. “Remind me Alyssa, to never ever let you counsel Joffrey.” He filled both their glasses again, then announced loudly and bitterly. “To our king. Long may he reign.”

Alyssa snorted and raised her glass. “To our king.” She was giggling when she drank, wine escaping from her mouth and dribbling down her chin. She reached out and poured herself some more, obeying when Tyrion held his glass out to her. “And everything he brings.” This time she was able to drink before the laughter hit her, then she was laughing so hard that she almost fell from the chair. _He’s like Gregor, only weak._ The pain hit her, and then she was gasping and collapsed over the table. Tyrion looked truly concerned, and she spat. “Does he know of the wildfire?”

“No,” Tyrion said bluntly. “Because the moment he finds out is the moment he will ask for some, and my nephew with wildfire is even worse than my sister with wildfire. At least my sister isn’t stupid enough to set the city aflame because a member of the smallfolk insulted her.”

Alyssa took another breath, the pain slowly beginning to decrease.

“Can you answer me honestly now, Alyssa. How much pain are you in?” Tyrion said. She clenched her jaw, for clenching her fist would only make it worse. Make him see. He sighed, and tossed her a gold coin.

“No,” she spat weakly. Tyrion did not seem to believe it. He could probably see it in her eyes, and she forced herself upwards. The world spun then she was back on her seat again, crashing down heavily.

“I only wish to help you,” Tyrion said. “Most people don’t believe me when I say that. You don’t either. That’s why I am paying you to tell me.”

“It will never stop,” she heard herself say. But it was worse, worse than usual. “I can bear it.” A lie. It had become worse. She could not move her fingers enough. Hold a shield. _Fuck._ She was laughing, or perhaps she was sobbing. But at least there were no tears. She rested her forehead on the table.

“I can get you a maester,” Tyrion said, and his voice sounded a world away.

“The maester will tell,” she mumbled, and she felt slight pressure through her gauntlet.

“I am a Lannister,” Tyrion told her. “I am not blessed with the Lannister good looks, but I do have the Lannister gold. I will… Alyssa!” She opened her eyes again, her vision blurring. “Come with me.” She stood, more carefully this time. Her movements were disjointed and unsteady as she followed Tyrion, but the pain was there as she touched the wall. It focussed her, but it should not have been there. It should not have been so bad.

“I told Sansa about the Riverlands,” Alyssa said, though she did not see Tyrion’s reaction to that. He pushed a door open. It was a bedroom, probably for some sort of lord or lady. She lay on the bed, too exhausted to remain upright. The nightmares would come, she knew, but she could not keep her eyes open.

She awoke several times. The first, gasping for breath, sweat pouring down her face. She was still in armour, she noticed, but her limbs were leaden. The next, her mouth was dry and her head throbbed, and light was beginning to come in through the windows. The third time she awoke properly, her left arm burning. Water had been left next to the bed and she drank that thirstily, and there was a vial next to it with a note scrawled onto it. Four words, but it had been so long since she had practiced her letters and it took her a few minutes to decipher them, focussing on sounding each of the letters out individually. _For the pain. Tyrion._

Alyssa clenched her fist slowly, getting half way before the pain was too bad for her to do it slowly. _Fuck. Fuck!_ The fear hit her and she could barely breathe, barely move. She had to be strong and she couldn’t clench her fist. She couldn’t open the vial. Her gauntlets made her fingers to large, too clumsy, and her hands shook too much to take them off. But the top of the vial shattered against the side of the table, and she drank. If the medicine made her drowsy she did not notice, but the pain reduced slowly and she forced herself to move.

She barred the door first, quickly, then removed her armour. Sleeping in armour was not pleasant, and it made the soft highborn bed no more pleasant than hard or wet ground. The heel of her hand hurt as she pressed down on it, but not enough for there to be a break. Biting the inside of her lip, she tested her own range of motion, not removing the brace. It was always less painful with the brace, and it restricted her no more than the armour would. The area around the brace was obviously swollen, and when she removed it much of the skin under it seemed almost purple. Swollen too, but restricted.

_Fuck._

 

“You cannot come to Sansa’s room.” That was Shae, Sansa’s handmaiden. Shae probably ought not come to Tyrion, or it would be obvious exactly who she belonged to, but nobody looked at the handmaidens. They were meant to remain out of sight, and even if they weren’t the highborns barely spared them a glance. It had been years since she had been able to pass as a handmaiden. “We do not want Joffrey asking why.”

“Is she afraid?” Alyssa ground out, and Shae looked up at her.

“Not of you,” Shae said, and Alyssa clenched her jaw.

“You should be,” Alyssa growled, but from Shae’s poise there was no fear. _She will die,_ Alyssa thought. Defiance should have been beaten out of her. But Shae was not her concern. If Shae wanted to open her mouth to slit her own throat, it was not her concern. “Where?”

“Sansa likes to pray in the godswood. She will be doing so this evening,” Shae said, and Alyssa frowned. But there was no place that they both had a reason to be in, that didn’t have ears. No doubt the walls had ears. She almost clenched her fist, the pain shooting up her arm reminding her that it was a bad idea.

“And she trusts you?” Alyssa spat. Shae seemed confused. “Does she know you belong to Tyrion?”

“I have told her not to trust anybody,” Shae said. “Myself included.”

The future queen would likely be in a far better place had she listened to that. The girl was far too trustful. Alyssa snorted. Shae probably was what they had assumed she was, a whore. She probably fucked Tyrion and Bronn and half the Mountain Men, and Alyssa frowned when she realized she did not like that thought.

“Once,” Alyssa said. She would see how safe the godswood was.

It had already been mid afternoon when Alyssa had awoken. Tyrion had left food out for her, but she had not seen him. He knew her to be injured though, so she doubted there was an expectation for her to guard him. He would likely stop paying her in coin, soon enough, yet part of her did not believe that. Although such thoughts were foolishness.

When the sun started to set, she pulled on her cloak over her mail. Not plate, as if she was going out into the city. The hood cast a shadow over her face, and she strapped the crossbow to her back. Her sword remained at her hip, as usual, and she reckoned there was no point for a shield. Her left arm would not be able to take the impact.

She had not yet been to the godswood. It was quiet, and in the trees, it felt like perhaps she wasn’t being observed, but she knew that was wrong. If someone wanted to listen, they could easily hide. It did not take long for her to find Sansa, and then her mouth was suddenly dry. She pushed the hood of her cloak back.

Sansa looked up and smiled, and this time it was somehow genuine. Alyssa was not sure how it could be, as even if there was no fear there should be no happiness either.

“Nobody can hear us here,” Sansa said, half nervously. “I am sure of it.”

“How do you know?” Alyssa said, and Sansa looked nervous.

“I am sure. Trust me,” Sansa said quickly. “I have been here a lot, and I have never seen anybody else.” A lie. Sansa was too nervous. Alyssa frowned. “I am sure.” Alyssa swallowed, nodded. “Are you well, Alyssa?”

Alyssa snorted at the question. _Highborn._ “I can fight.” If she had to. Sansa did not seem to know what to say, and they remained in silence for a moment. Alyssa swallowed. “I am sorry.” She clenched her fist quickly, clenching her teeth at the pain. She should not have spoken. Sansa was watching her closely, her eyes widening slightly. Perhaps Shae had been wrong. “Are you frightened?”

“You do not want to harm me,” Sansa said, with little hesitation.

“I hurt you yesterday,” Alyssa remembered suddenly. It had been nothing, no more than a bruise, but she should not have touched the future queen.

“It was not your fault,” Sansa said nervously.

“It’s not Joffrey’s fault he orders his guards to beat you. He’s only upset,” Alyssa spat, her voice coming out bitter and mocking, and Sansa flinched backwards. “I could have hurt you far worse than I did. I could have snapped your neck and you could have done nothing to stop me.”

“Please calm down,” Sansa begged. She was terrified. Her eyes were wide, blue as a babe’s. She was a child.

“If you do not fear me you are a fool,” Alyssa said, and Sansa seemed to draw back within herself. She adopted her queenly poise, the one she used for Joffrey.

“You will not harm me again,” Sansa said, her voice clear and even. “Only a fool would harm the future queen. Please do not threaten me.” And Alyssa could almost feel herself crumbling.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You promised that you would help me,” Sansa said, with the same queenly mask. Alyssa swallowed. The pain was constant, too much, always there. She could not use it to focus herself, so she clenched her jaw instead. Took a breath. Then another.

“You will not be able to fight grown men,” Alyssa said. “And you will get more bruises.” It was impossible to learn to fight without getting bruises. “You will need to learn to act less highborn. You want to go home?”

Sansa’s mask broke.

“No. This is my true home. Why would I ever want to leave? I love Joffrey,” Sansa said. Her mantra. Alyssa knelt down so that she was in front of Sansa.

“I never left. I had nowhere to go,” Alyssa said, but that was not strictly true for Sansa. Elsewhere was just a warzone. “It is my home. I will return, maybe soon.” She paused, and Sansa’s expression was hard to read. If King’s Landing had to be fled, it was the last place they would look, and Tywin Lannister would want Sansa alive. Sansa’s brother’s men were close, although the lot of them were likely rapers as much as her father’s men.

The safest place for Sansa was this city. But like as not this city was about to become a fucking massive fireball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! :)


End file.
